


The Terrible Fire of Old Regret (is honey on my tongue)

by BlueJayCalling



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Betaed, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Comedy of Errors, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Eskel Has the Other Braincell, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injured Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskier's Canonically Awful Flirting, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, MacGuffins, Magical Artifacts, Major Character Injury, Making Up, Memory Loss, Multi, OC villain - Freeform, OT3, Original Character(s), Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-OT3, Pre-Relationship, Psychic Violence, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Torture, Triss Has the Braincell, Vesemir ships it, Winter at Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJayCalling/pseuds/BlueJayCalling
Summary: Yennefer runs into Jaskier two years after they separated from Geralt, and the sparks between them ignite. When Jaskier goes missing after their clandestine affair, Yennefer is honor-bound to find him - and brings him to Kaer Morhen for the winter to heal. But of course, with Geralt around, healing won't come easily. The trio has until the snow thaws to figure out what to do with their fresh revelations and old regrets.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 123
Kudos: 205





	1. Long is the Road that Leads Me Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siyah_Kedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/gifts).



_I still taste you on my lips_

_Lovely bitter water_

_The terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue_

_And I know I shouldn’t love you_

_I know I shouldn’t love you_

_But I do_

-Bitter Water, The Oh Hellos

_____  
  


Chapter One: Long is the Road that Leads Me Home

_Long is the road that leads me home_

_And longer still when I walk alone_

_Bitter is the thought of all that time_

_Spent searching for something I'll never find_

\- Cold is the Night, The Oh Hellos

  
  


The scents of smoke, stale ale, and cooking oil commingled and hung heavily in the air inside The Unlaced Corset. It still wasn’t enough to fully mask the putrid stink of the nearby fish market that made Gors Velen famous. Another major strike against the inn as a possible place to stay for the night, Yennefer thought, was the raucous crowd, cheering for what she presumed to be the evening’s entertainment. What kind of act could make a tavern full of fisherman and merchants this excited, she wondered. Sea shanties? Half-nude dancing girls? 

Questioning the instinct that led her to this place instead of the more renowned and distinguished Silver Heron, she was about to exit as quickly as she entered when she learned exactly what - or who - had captured the attention of the tavern patrons. The first few notes the bard played drew applause that immediately calmed as he started to sing: 

“The fairer sex, they often call it, but her love’s as unfair as a crook…”

_Oh_ , Yennefer thought, immediately recognizing the voice and making her way through the crowd to get a better look. _This ought to be good._

***

Once the performance was over for the night and the audience had dispersed, Yennefer made her way from the relatively quiet corner of the tavern that she had claimed as hers and sat down at the bar a stool away from the bard.

“Jaskier,” she said with a fondness too exaggerated to be genuine. “What a surprise.” That part, at least, sounded sincere.

“Ah. I thought my drink tasted a bit off.” The bard set down his glass of wine and looked at it contemplatively, then glanced up at the sorceress. “But as it turns out, it was you leaving a bad taste in my mouth after all. What a relief,” he said as he smiled wryly at Yennefer and polished off the rest of his wine.

Yennefer barely suppressed a bitter laugh. “Awfully brave of you to insult someone like me without the Witcher by your side to protect you. It’s truly a wonder you’re not dead by now.”

  
Something about Yennefer’s jab stung the bard a bit deeper than he’d like to admit. But always a performer, his cheery-yet-sardonic tone didn’t waiver with his retort. 

“Awfully bold of you to assume that you’re someone I’d need protection from. And besides,” - Jaskier waved to the barkeep and gestured for another drink- “You’re not the type that would have me killed. I haven’t slept with any of your lovers.”

“Have you, Jaskier?” the sorceress asked, locking her gaze with his, piercing amethyst on lapis lazuli. 

“No,” he replied. There was only one person she could be asking about that mattered to both of them, and there was no more plain or honest response he could give her. She seemed satisfied by his answer.

“One of your songs, it’s about me, isn’t it? ‘She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss?’” Yennefer asked. _Oh, thank the gods, saved by her self-centered nature_ , Jaskier thought, relieved for the change of topic. But no such luck. She continued: “I was paying attention to the words, very close attention-”

“I bet you were.”

“How many people are mentioned in that song? Because I counted three. Is that accurate?”

“No, that’s-” The bard didn’t sound so sure, his confident demeanor betrayed by his chest tightening with dread. Again, with feeling: “No,” he repeated, and almost convinced himself he meant it. 

“Oh. Well then.” If Yennefer was feigning like she was about to drop the subject, it didn’t last long. “‘She’ is me, isn't that right? ‘You’ is well… I think that’s obvious, too. But then… there’s ‘I.’ That’s you, Jaskier.” It wasn’t a question. 

‘Her Sweet Kiss’ had become a popular tune of his, played to the wild excitement of crowds like it had been that very night, and not a single person who heard it over the last two years or so had ever mentioned the song’s little pronoun problem.

“Enough,” Jaskier demanded softly but firmly, fighting the urge to let her win whatever game she was playing by walking away from the conversation. “It’s poetic license, that’s all.”

“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting,” Yennefer quoted. She smiled, not mockingly this time, but knowingly. Jaskier stared blankly in her direction, not at her, but at the space around her as his vision swirled with panic. The barkeep returned, placing two glasses of wine on the bar in front of them. Seconds of silence passed like years between them before she stood up from the bar and took a glass in each hand. “Come. Let’s talk, darling.”

***

The table in the corner of the tavern felt peaceful and intimate in comparison to the crowded bar and its rowdy occupants, and the coziness put Jaskier at ease. That, and the vodka he had switched to drinking. In any case, it was much easier for him to speak honestly about Geralt, something he had never done before. 

He had sung about the Witcher for two decades now. But always before, he dealt in half-truths. It was a source of pride as well as pain that Jaskier could say he knew Geralt better than any other human did. There was what the whole Continent knew about Geralt - his valor, his heroic feats - and then there was what Jaskier knew about him: he was both more human than Geralt would admit to, and more monster than Jaskier was willing to acknowledge. 

Until now.

“I haven’t seen the bastard in, what, two years?” The bard tried to make it sound like he hadn’t been counting each season he spent without Geralt. Over the twenty years that he’d known the Witcher, there were stretches of time where their paths did not cross, sometimes longer than it had been since the last time they spoke. But last time was different. There had been no amicable parting of ways. Instead, Geralt had made it clear that he wanted Jaskier out of his life for good. Of all the times Geralt could have chosen to finally use his words, it just had to be for that, the bard mused. 

“I wonder how long it’s been for me,” Yennefer wondered out loud. Measuring time is understandably different when your lifespan is measured in centuries. “About the same, I imagine. Not since the-”

“Dragon hunt?” Jaskier finished her sentence. It was a guess, an educated one, that proved to be correct. 

The sorceress sighed and nodded, taking another swig of her vodka. “Two years, hm? Feels so much longer than that. Like another lifetime ago.” She gazed into her drink. “You know about Sodden Hill, right?”

“Of course,” Jaskier replied solemnly. Word had traveled to every corner of the Continent about the fourteen mages that had perished fighting against Nilfgaard, making the victory bittersweet. 

“So many dead, so many more wounded. Myself included, but I was one of the lucky ones.” Yennefer looked up at her drinking companion. “I was blinded. Obviously, that is no longer the case.” She sounded so matter-of-fact saying it, and despite appearing to be fully recovered physically, there was a glimmer of pain in her eyes. “And worse than that, I believed Triss was dead.” 

Jaskier looked astonished. “You mean, she isn’t?” Triss Merigold had been counted among the fourteen, so her survival was wonderful and unexpected news.

Yennefer smiled, and the hurt behind her eyes dissipated. “She isn’t. And I know where she is. She’s at Kaer Morhen, with Geralt.” She paused, and added in a hushed tone, “And Princess Cirilla.”

Jaskier gaped. “The rumor is true. The Lion Cub of Cintra lives.” He paused, made a mental note to come back to the inspiration that struck him, and returned to the topic at hand. “So he claimed his Child Surprise after all, did he?”

Yennefer nodded and laughed. “I’m just as amazed as you are.”

“Oh,” the bard expressed his disbelief, uncharacteristically lacking better words. He started laughing too, a chuckle tinged with bitterness. “He blamed me for that, for the Child Surprise. For the djinn, too.” Yennefer looked at him, bewildered, and he averted his eyes from meeting hers. “And for you leaving.” When he said that, she felt his larger-than-life energy recede and could almost hear his heart breaking all over again as it had when Geralt had spoken the words. His posture deflated as he looked down at his now-empty drink and realized he didn’t even have vodka to turn to for comfort. 

Yennefer stood up from her seat across from Jaskier, teetering slightly with drunkenness, and moved to sit next to him on the bench. “Look at me,” she demanded, angling to face him. He reluctantly complied. “None of that was your fault, especially not me leaving. That whole mess was entirely Geralt’s doing, and it was entirely my choice to go.” At least, she hoped it was her choice, if anything she did having to do with Geralt could be a choice.

Jaskier looked at her despondently. “It isn’t just that, Yennefer. Were it so, I might be more inclined to let it go.”

“What else did the bastard do?” Yennefer asked. 

“Oh, where do I start? The day I met him, he punched me. And then there was the time that…” The floodgates were open for the bard to tell the side of Geralt’s story that he'd never spoken of, of all the times the Witcher had been cruel to him, insulted him, dismissed his opinions because he’s “just a bard,” and sometimes even raised a hand against him. Yennefer listened intently to Jaskier telling the darker parts of Geralt’s tale, lifting her attention only briefly to call the barkeep over for more booze. 

“...And of course, every time you showed up, I ceased to exist,” Jaskier said with an accusatory tone and a pout. If it was supposed to make Yennefer feel guilty, it wasn’t working. “Then again, if a woman so alluring, or dare I say bewitching, was after my attention, I might have done the same.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “You’re drunk, Jaskier. Besides, you hate me.”

“No, that’s not true,” he defended, shaking his head. “Well, I am drunk. But I don’t hate you. I - how do I say this?” he slurred. “I was jealous. Of you. And this whole… thing... you have going on,” Jaskier said as he gestured broadly and flamboyantly.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” the sorceress asked, genuinely intrigued.

  
  
“Oh, you know… Like I said, you’re quite beautiful. As beautiful and frightening as a force of nature can be. Like a… seductive volcano.”

Yennefer laughed, perhaps just a bit too loudly. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment and not one of your usual insults.” She had witnessed his atrocious attempts at flirting in the past, and it appeared that neither time nor alcohol had sharpened his skills.

Jaskier smirked. “If I were insulting you, you’d know it.” Clearly, he wasn’t aware of how his flirtations sounded. “I’ve never held back my barbs before. Not from you, not from one of the few people I’ve ever met that can keep up.”

“I’m no Oxenfurt Academy graduate, but I can hold my own in a battle of wits.” Yennefer smiled and took a sip of her drink. “I have to admit, you’re smarter than I gave you credit for. Of course, that doesn’t mean you’re not a fool. But at least where you lack wisdom, you make up for it with audacity.”

Jaskier’s brow raised in curiosity. “Now was that an insult or a compliment?”

The sorceress laughed, almost an uncharacteristically girlish giggle. “Don’t make me say nice things about you, bard.”

“Oh of course not, that would be terrible,” Jaskier said with a playfully sarcastic tone. “Your ego would never recover.”

“You don’t care about my ego.”

“Not a single bit.”

  
  
Yennefer was silent for a moment. “That’s why I respect you. Most humans, and many mages, wouldn’t think of crossing me out of fear for their lives, yet you antagonize me for sport. Most people are frightened of Witchers, and you spent years faithfully following one around the Continent, just for material to write songs about.”

“Maybe I am a fool.” Indeed, Geralt had been his muse, and the songs he’d written about the Witcher helped to propel him to a level of fame that many bards never reached - at least, not while they were still alive. But Jaskier certainly wouldn’t have put his life in peril again and again solely for art’s sake.

“That was never up for debate, darling.” Yennefer put her hand on Jaskier’s thigh and playfully squeezed, quickly pulling away once she realized what she had done. “What I mean to say is... Where others see horror, you find beauty. You see humanity, even when it’s hard to be found. Even when it doesn’t want to be found.”

“That’s what I do. I’m just a bard,” Jaskier said with a slight shrug.

“Don’t ever say that again.” Yennefer’s voice turned serious. “And don’t listen to anyone who says that again.” She took his hand in hers, and it felt warm, tender, and secure. The touch of many a lover had offered him the first two, but almost never the last one.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come. Instead, he stared at his hand as if it was something foreign, in the gentle grasp of a very beautiful, very powerful, and very insane witch. 

“Why?” Jaskier finally asked. “Why are you doing... this?”

“Because I choose to,” Yennefer answered, brushing her thumb over the bard’s knuckles. That explanation sounded reasonable enough to him. 

“Well, it is getting rather late. I have a room here for tonight, if you’d like to join me,” Jaskier offered, fully expecting to be rejected.

Yennefer took a moment to consider. “I think I would like that, actually.” 

***

Yennefer was pleasantly surprised to find Jaskier more adept at seduction with actions rather than words. There was more he could do with that mouth of his than run it nonstop, and on occasion, sing. 

Of all of the things she demanded in her life, control was high on the list. Giving it up, even for a moment, did not come easily. But letting it go and giving in to the gentle but sure hands that plunged into her hair and over her magically-formed curves and the calloused yet delicate fingertips that brushed her cheeks and lips and played her as if it were a rare and fine instrument felt as natural as anything. 

None of the noblewomen that Jaskier had wooed and bedded in the past came close to exuding the kind of power and confidence that Yennefer did. In fact, despite being inhumanly beautiful, she was nothing like any fair maiden. She was strong, self-possessed, and unyielding, which made it all the more satisfying when she surrendered.

As their unlikely but surprisingly harmonious duet reached its crescendo, he kissed her deeply. When he pulled away, their eyes met, piercing amethyst on lapis lazuli. She caught a glimpse of something she thought she'd never find: a being - particularly a fragile, mortal human - who could get dangerously close to her and be neither humbled nor afraid. With that kind of foolish bravery, it truly was a wonder, she mused again, that Jaskier wasn't dead by now.

They laid entangled in each other’s arms, and though the crisp autumn air chilled the small room above the tavern, their body heat was enough to keep them warm. The smell of the fresh linen mixed with the scents of sweat and lilacs and gooseberries, and Jaskier’s cologne - sandalwood and jasmine. 

Yennefer was about to doze off when she heard Jaskier humming softly. “That sounds lovely,” she commented, eyes still closed.

The humming stopped. “I’ve got an idea for a new song.”

“Wonderful. As long as it’s not about me again.”

“Oh, no, not this one. But you did help inspire it, and I do believe it will be well-received.”

“Lovely, darling,” she mumbled, finally falling asleep in the bard’s arms.

***

“Are you going anywhere for the winter?” Yennefer asked in the morning as they prepared to part ways.

“Oxenfurt,” Jaskier replied. “I’m teaching again at the Academy in Spring, but I need time to prepare. I plan to stay here just a bit longer, then cross the river before it gets too cold.” He paused. “Why do you ask? Thinking of dropping by for a repeat performance?”

“Maybe,” Yennefer answered, not wanting to give the bard the satisfaction of hearing her say ‘yes.’ 

Jaskier nodded, finding her reply satisfying regardless of her intent. “Perhaps you should come find me in Oxenfurt, then.”

“Perhaps,” she echoed. 

They shared one final kiss before Yennefer left the small room above the tavern. As she stepped out into the streets of Gors Velen, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine and sweat still clung to her skin. In her heart was the peace that came with knowing that no matter how she would feel about this later, at least it had been her choice to make. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: thank you so much for all the kudos and comments so far. You're all so very lovely 💜
> 
> ***  
> The entire plot has been outlined, and more is definitely coming soon. If you enjoyed chapter one, please bookmark, leave a comment, etc.
> 
> Special thanks and mention goes out to Siyah_Kedi for... everything. For pulling me back into writing for fun, for all the "yes-and"-ing each other's wild ideas, for brainstorming, feedback, beta-ing, calling me out on my cardinal writing sins, keeping me motivated, and for getting me on board with a ship that I never thought I'd care for XD I guess that's my punishment for dragging you into the Witcher fandom, and I eagerly accept it. :3


	2. I Will Look for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of violence, blood and injury.

Chapter 2: I Will Look for You

_ I will look for you _

_ As the sun rises high _

_ When the dry bones dance _

_ With the timbrel and lyre _

-Thus Always to Tyrants, The Oh Hellos

  
  
  


Yennefer’s arrival in Oxenfurt coincided with the first snowfall of winter. The bitter cold did little to put a damper on the vibrancy of the colorful city. Fashionably-dressed youths walked the narrow streets on their way to and from the Academy, some stopping to congregate with friends and huddle for warmth while exchanging greetings and gossip. Others searched for quiet places to be out of the cold and alone with their books. 

Unsure of where she would find Jaskier in such a big city, Yennefer figured the Academy was the best place to start. 

“Jaskier?” the old professor repeated after Yennefer, trying to put a face to the familiar name. “Oh! You must mean Julian,” she said, the laugh lines on her face deepening with her grin. “The bard who wrote all of those popular songs about that Witcher?”

“Yes, that’s him,” Yennefer confirmed. As if there could be any other.

There was a nostalgic gleam in the academic's eyes. “I’m proud of him, truly. Why, I remember when he struggled with poetry. In fact, of all of my students, he’s the last one I thought would ever make a name for himself. I’m glad he proved me wrong. But he’ll always be Julian to me. Oh-” she interrupted herself from rambling further. “I should have asked this first: You’re not looking for him because he wronged you in some way, are you? No love affair gone awry? No cuckolded husbands after him?”

Yennefer shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. I’m just… a friend.” 

The aged scholar let out a hearty laugh. “Good, good. I do hope he’s been staying out of trouble. But to answer your question, he hasn’t arrived yet, I’m afraid.”

That wasn’t what Yennefer was expecting to hear. “Are you certain? He said he’d be here by now.”

“Yes, I’m certain, and I’m aware,” the professor replied, sounding far less jovial and slightly annoyed. “I invited him. It’s my first-year class he’s supposed to be teaching next term, and he’s supposed to be preparing for it now.” She sighed. “That’s why I asked, he’s not in any trouble that you know of, is he?”

“No. But I’m sure he’ll show up soon,” Yennefer replied confidently, betraying a wave of apprehension. 

Unconvinced, the old professor continued: “The last correspondence from him was weeks ago, and he was just south of the river. It’s not as if it’s a long or perilous journey. You say you’re his friend, correct?” She abandoned any effort to hide the concern in her voice. Yennefer nodded. How else could she describe her relationship with Jaskier now? “Then you know this isn’t like Julian, to not keep his word. Loyal to a fault, that one.” 

“Indeed,” said Yennefer, agreeing wholeheartedly that the balladeer was nothing if not loyal. It was getting harder and harder to shake the feeling that Jaskier’s absence was suspicious, but she didn’t want to worry the professor further. “Now that I think of it, I do recall him mentioning he might extend his tour a little longer,” she lied. “He’s getting quite famous, you know. Packed crowds every night. I’m willing to bet he’s been so busy performing that he’s simply lost track of time.”

The lecturer's face lit up again as she smiled, beaming youthfully in a way that took at least a decade off her age. “He’s always been an attention-seeker. I’m happy he’s found it. And I’m willing to bet you’re right. I’m still going to give him an earful when he shows up, but now I won’t worry so much, thank you.” 

Yennefer expressed her thanks and took her leave, making her way off the campus and through the city streets. While Jaskier’s old teacher was now at ease, Yennefer was troubled by the thought of what to do now. 

Prior to a handful of weeks ago, it would have been so easy to continue on her way. It wouldn’t have mattered to her one way or another what kind of difficulty Geralt’s bard had found himself tangled up in. But now, he was more than simply “Geralt’s bard” - if he could still be considered that at all. She imagined she could still smell sandalwood and jasmine, and longed to be touched by hands that did not tremble in fear of her. 

Logic told her to listen to her own advice: he would turn up soon, she shouldn’t worry, it would be best if she moved on. But her intuition - a mage’s intuition - told her otherwise:  _ something is wrong and you know it _ . 

_ Damn you, Jaskier _ , she thought as she made up her mind and headed back toward Gors Velen, the last place she knew he had been. 

***

Jaskier had lost track of how much time had passed since he had been dragged out of The Unlaced Corset by a band of Nilfgaardian troops. They just had a few questions about his new song, The Lion Cub of Cintra, they said, and told him there would be no trouble if he stepped outside to talk. 

The tavern was dead quiet as every patron watched the scene unfold. The troubadour calmly packed up his lute, slung the case over his shoulder and walked to where the soldiers stood waiting. 

“It’s a bit chilly outside, isn’t it? We can have a seat at the bar if you want to chat,” Jaskier said, motioning toward some open seats. Instead of accepting his invitation, one of the soldiers grabbed his wrists as another approached with shackles in hand. In Jaskier’s opinion, this was quickly looking like the opposite of “no trouble.” He yanked himself free from the soldier’s grasp and bolted for the tavern door, but didn’t make it far. Another soldier tackled the bard, knocking his lute case off his shoulder and sending him sprawling to the floor. 

There was a crack that Jaskier assumed was his lute making impact with the wooden floor until he registered a sharp, nauseating pain shooting through his leg. Before he could beg the soldier to get off of him, he passed out, making it easier for the troops to finish cuffing him. One soldier confiscated his lute, another picked up Jaskier, and both the artist and his instrument were unceremoniously tossed into a cart and taken to the outpost.

When Jaskier came to, his captors demanded to know one thing: the whereabouts of Cirilla, Princess of Cintra. 

He insisted he didn’t know, but his captors pressed on, asserting that his latest song insinuated that he did. He was just a bard, he tried to explain, and it was just a song, based on a silly rumor. He promised that he didn’t know anything - and that even if he did, he would never tell. 

His captors could not beat his secret out of him, nor could they cut it out of him, or coax it out in any of the horrible ways they tried. Despite being a natural teller of tales, the balladeer was now strikingly silent, refusing to share even the slightest detail. He never mentioned Kaer Morhen or Geralt. In fact, Jaskier tried to not even think about the Witcher, lest he slip and mumble his former traveling companion’s name in a pain-addled haze. 

Though he had no way of knowing when he had last seen the sun, Jaskier highly doubted he would ever see it again. Unable to walk or even stand, he knew escape was not an option, and he refused to entertain the fantasy of being rescued. He didn’t need to keep track of time to know that his days were numbered. Moments of lucidity were becoming shorter and less frequent, for which he was grateful. While he certainly didn’t wish for death, he’d give up anything for his misery to end - anything, of course, but the information his captors demanded.

***

The Unlaced Corset was so empty and quiet that Yennefer initially thought she had entered the wrong tavern. 

The barkeep cautiously poked his head out from the kitchen. She recognized him from before, middle-aged and stocky with dark features and a kind face. He likewise remembered Yennefer, and stepped out behind the bar. “I know who you are,” he said excitedly.

_ I highly doubt that, _ Yennefer thought, but let him continue.

“You’re friends with the minstrel that was performing here a moon or so ago. Sat in the corner together all night long.” He paused. “Stayed the night.”

“Yes, you remember well. That bard… I’m looking for him. You don’t happen to know where he went when he left here, do you?”

“Oh…” The bartender’s face blanched. “A few weeks ago, probably just a few days after you were here, a group of soldiers from Nilfgaard came in here. Your friend was entertaining the customers like usual, and they just… took him. There was a bit of a commotion. Folks haven’t been around much since-” 

Yennefer cut him off, the damage done to the barkeep’s business being the least of her concern. “Nilfgaard took him,” she repeated. “Took him where?”

“Can’t say for certain but-”

“Guess,” she barked.

“Nilfgaardian outpost. South-east of the city, in the direction of the mountains. That’s my best guess, but I don’t-”

Yennefer turned to leave.

“Wait!” The barkeep called after her, and she stopped to look back over her shoulder. “That bard, he stayed here a while. We didn’t talk much, but... it was clear to me that something was troubling him. After you came, he was different. He dropped the maudlin love ballads and started singing about the triumphs of heroes and defeating monsters - and something new, something about the Princess of Cintra - and he seemed truly happy. I… I hope you find him.” 

“Me too,” Yennefer replied, forcing a smile, and exited the tavern.

***

Jaskier was snatched from the fog of blissful unconsciousness by the harsh grip of a Nilfgaardian soldier yanking him up off the cell floor and forcing him to his feet. Unable to bear weight on his injured leg, he dropped to his knees. The soldier grabbed him again, pinning him up against the cell wall with one hand and hitting him hard across the face with the other. Jaskier spit out a mouthful of blood onto the floor. 

“You gonna behave?” The soldier asked, and the bard nodded weakly. He stopped talking back and making snide comments a long time ago, not because he feared his captors’ reactions, but because it hurt to talk at all. It hurt to even breathe. 

The soldier half-dragged Jaskier out of the cell and into the interrogation room. He let go of his grip, letting Jaskier fall at the feet of the man waiting for him, a sorcerer working for Nilfgaard. While he never physically laid a hand on the poet himself, he gave the orders for others to carry out, and used his magic to probe Jaskier’s mind for the location of Cirilla. He came close to slipping several times during the worst of the torture they put him through. But he managed to keep the Princess, Geralt, and the Witcher’s keep out of his thoughts, concentrating on anything else his mind would allow. 

“Hm, quite interesting,” said the mage suddenly and apropo of nothing, reacting as if he had seen or heard something that no one else had sensed. He muttered a spell under his breath, then turned his attention to Jaskier. 

“I’m going to keep this brief. I think I’ve given you more than enough chances to be honest with me about the inspiration for your little tune. I know there’s something in your head, but you won’t let me have it. If you would just tell me, I’d let you go. But if you wish to die with your secret, so be it. I’ll give you what you want.” 

The mage stepped aside and motioned to the soldier, who moved to stand in front of Jaskier, brandishing a mace. The poet’s eyes fell upon the blunt metal weapon, then he looked up at the sorcerer, trying to come up with something clever to say. If his next words were going to be his last, he wanted them to at least be memorable.

Unfortunately, Jaskier’s window of opportunity for a witty remark was closed by the mace being swung at him. The musician’s hands went up instinctively in self-defense. His vision went white from a blinding flash of agony as the business end of the weapon collided with his arm before striking him in the side of his chest. He let out an anguished cry as he crumpled in a heap on the floor.

“One last chance,” the magician said. Jaskier could feel tendrils of magic prodding at his mind, riffling through his thoughts like they were pages of manuscript. With every ounce of concentration he had left, the bard pushed back, guarding his thoughts of Cirilla and Geralt with pleasant but mundane memories until the mage withdrew.

The soldier’s next blow came down hard on his midsection. Lacking enough air in his lungs to scream, Jaskier suffered quietly. He closed his eyes, accepting the fact that this is where his story would end. As the edge of his consciousness blurred, he thought he heard the door fly open, and could detect the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries. 

“Kill him,” he heard the mage command. 

***

The outpost was right where the barkeep said it was, and the farthest thing from inconspicuous. Despite its defeat in the Northern War, Nilfgaard was still brazenly flying its banner and making a display of its military might with the massive compound. 

Yennefer waited for nightfall, observing when the guards traded shifts. When it was sufficiently dark and the timing was right, she made quick and quiet work of killing the guards and sneaked through the outpost gate. It occurred to her that for such a large base, there should be more soldiers milling around than she was seeing, but she was suddenly distracted: she could feel the presence of a sorcerer, and an unfamiliar one at that. 

She moved toward the source of the magical energy, finding herself right outside a small wooden building when she suddenly realized: if she could detect the mage’s presence, then he could detect hers, too. Her epiphany coincided with a wave of heavily-armored soldiers converging on her, swords drawn. With the point of remaining stealthy defeated, the sorceress hurled a wall of fire at the fast-approaching soldiers and hastened into the building in front of her. 

The structure in which Yennefer stood was poorly lit, but it appeared to be a prison of sorts. The simple and cramped building didn't look like it was large enough to hold more than a handful of prisoners at once, which made Yennefer’s search that much easier. She did a quick sweep, failing to find any captives or a trace of Jaskier. Spots of fresh blood stood out in one particular cell like a bad omen.

Behind a closed door, she found a storage room, half-filled with a stack of what Yennefer guessed were the confiscated belongings of Nilfgaard's captives. Near the top of the pile was a clue that offered both promise and dread: Jaskier's lute case. Her heart sank. She snatched up the case and slung it over her shoulder. It was somehow easier for her to press on with her search thinking,  _ I need to give this back to Jaskier or else he's going to kill me,  _ rather than  _ I need to find Jaskier before they kill him - if they haven't already. _

There was one last door, the one standing between her and the mage whose presence she sensed. She meant to form a plan of attack, but any strategy was immediately derailed by the sound coming from the other side of the door: a pained cry, then something hard - like metal - making impact on something soft - like flesh, then silence. 

Flinging the door open, Yennefer discovered what appeared to be a chamber for interrogation, a windowless room with shackles on the wall and instruments of unspeakable horror strewn about. There before her stood the sorcerer and a Nilfgaardian soldier with a bludgeon in hand. Her eyes fell to the form of the bloodied and beaten bard on the floor, and though she couldn’t tell if he was still alive, she hoped that she had not been too late. 

"Kill him," said the mage, and the soldier lifted his weapon to deliver the finishing blow. With a primal yell, Yennefer shot through the soldier with a bolt of magic, and he dropped to the ground. She turned her attention to the magician, unleashing a ball of fire at where he stood, but she was too late. A portal opened before him, and he was gone. Her frustration at missing her target did not last long; she had more pressing matters to deal with, like getting Jaskier out alive - if he wasn't dead already. 

“Jaskier, it’s me. It’s Yennefer,” she said as knelt down next to him. She reached for his wrist to check for a pulse, immediately letting go when she felt pieces of bone unnaturally shift. She carefully pressed her fingers to the side of his neck instead, and the weak and rapid but present pulse offered her tentative relief. Leaning over the bard, but being so very careful as to not touch him, she heard him draw in shallow breaths. Jaskier let out a spasming cough and Yennefer watched in wide-eyed horror as red froth bubbled up past his lips. She knew if she didn't do something soon, Jaskier would die. 

To make a dire situation even worse, she could hear the commotion of more soldiers approaching. Yennefer was left with two options: to stay and fight them off while Jaskier succumbed to his injuries, or portal them away and risk causing him further harm. 

“Yen…” she heard Jaskier utter, barely louder than a whisper. He struggled to lift his head and attempted to push himself up, but pain and exhaustion forced him to abandon his efforts. Yennefer gently placed her hand on him to keep him calm, somewhere she hoped was uninjured. With all of the blood and bruising, it was difficult to tell. But the fact that he still had enough fight in him to stay alive and hold onto consciousness, even if it was by a thread, helped Yennefer make up her mind about the best course of action.

“I’m getting you out of here,” she reassured him, and focused her magic on opening up a portal. The soldiers’ hurried footsteps were getting closer and closer. Yennefer held on to Jaskier, and with no time to concentrate on a specific place to go, she repeated in her head like a prayer:  _ Somewhere safe, somewhere safe, somewhere-  _  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of the publish date for chapter 2, chapter 3 is half-way done. So if you enjoyed this fic so far, please bookmark or subscribe or whatever it is you do here. I promise more is coming soon. The original outline (a red-hot fever dream mess of a document, I must say XD) is about 7 pages long, and there's still 6 pages of outlined material left to cover, so. Please stay tuned. 
> 
> Also, I thrive on attention like a needy houseplant, so please feel free to leave comments and such. I'll always write back. :)


	3. Every Breath That Comes Before

Chapter 3: Every Breath That Comes Before

_ No, I am not afraid to die _

_ It's every breath that comes before _

_ Heartache I've heard is part of life _

_ And I have broken more and more _

-This Will End, The Oh Hellos

  
  


_ Somewhere safe, somewhere safe, somewhere-  _

“Somewhere safe” turned out to be the small upstairs room in The Unlaced Corset as Yennefer and Jaskier landed in the very same bed they had shared not too long ago. Yennefer was grateful for the passable softness of the inn mattress, mostly for Jaskier's sake, and even more pleased to hear his shallow and labored breaths next to her. As unpleasant as it sounded, it was better than the alternative of him not breathing at all. 

Wasting no time, she stood up, dropped the lute case she had rescued next to the bed, and set the bedside lanterns alight. If she was going to try to help Jaskier, she would have to be able to see him first. Even in the dim light, she could see enough to know that the situation was dire. His obvious injuries were the least of her concern at the moment. The bard looked almost as pale as the fresh linen sheets and his skin glistened with sweat despite the cold. More worrying still was the blood that came up with his increasingly frequent coughing fits. 

With his eyes closed, she couldn’t tell if he was awake or unconscious, but she wasn’t going to take the chance of him waking up while she accessed his wounds. “Hold on. I’m going to get you help,” she said softly, and brushed her thumb along Jaskier’s bruised cheek. “I just need to make sure you stay asleep.” He whimpered something unintelligible as a reply. 

_ Must you always have the last word? _ she thought as she whispered a spell and placed him in a deep slumber.

Suddenly, the door to the room creaked open. Yennefer instinctively readied herself for a fight. But instead of looking up to face a band of Nilfgaardian troops like she dreaded, she saw the familiar dark-featured face of the barkeep as he stood in the doorway. He seemed likewise at ease to see Yennefer instead of whatever it was he’d been expecting.

“Ah, it’s you! But how? I heard a commotion and came up to-” the bartender’s baffled relief shifted to alarm when his eyes fell upon Jaskier’s form. “Oh gods… You found him! Is he… alive?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “For now. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I’ll go call for a physician,” the tavern keeper said as he rushed out the door. But Yennefer wasn’t sure Jaskier could wait that long. Even though healing was not her specialty, she set to work trying to do what she could, pushing the limits of her skills to keep the poet alive. By the time the barkeep returned with a healer, she was hopeful that she had managed to stop the internal hemorrhaging that threatened his life. She was unsure if her magic would hold, but at the very least, she had bought Jaskier time. 

A young man, no older than the students Yennefer saw at the Academy in Oxenfurt, entered the room and hurried to Jaskier’s bedside, setting his medic pack down on the floor next to him. The sorceress looked up and eyed him dubiously, but stepped away to give him space. The kind and helpful tavern keeper joined them moments later.

“This is Kacper,” the barkeep introduced. “Our best physician is away at a nearby village dealing with another serious matter, unfortunately. But Kacper is his most skilled apprentice. Your friend is in capable hands.” He placed his hand on Yennefer’s shoulder. “Come, let him do his work. You look like you could use a drink.” 

Yennefer reluctantly followed him out of the room to go downstairs. The tavern was quiet, with only a handful of customers gathered at the bar. The barkeep hadn’t exaggerated about the hit his business had taken ever since the Nilfgaardian troops barged in. 

Taking her spot at the table in the corner where she had sat before, the sorceress dropped down onto the bench, heavy with exhaustion. The bartender came by, setting a tankard full of a steaming hot beverage down in front of her. She picked it up and inhaled the cinnamon- and clove-scented vapor before taking a couple of sips. 

Her energy spent, she didn’t even finish her drink before falling asleep at the table, using her folded arms as a pillow. 

She awoke with a hypervigilant start as a gentle hand alighted upon her. She looked up to see Kacper. From the young man’s grave expression, she assumed the news wasn’t good. She stood to face him and braced herself for the worst.

“Is… Did he-?” 

The apprentice medic stopped her before she could ask. “He’s alive. But his injuries are severe. There was extensive internal damage, and it’s a miracle that he survived, frankly,” he explained. “His condition is precarious, but if he survives the night, the chances are good that he’ll eventually recover.” Yennefer let out a small sigh of relief, hoping that her attempts at healing had shifted the odds in the bard’s favor. 

“Of course, that’s  _ if _ he makes it til morning. And that’s not all, I’m afraid,” Kacper continued. “I stitched up several lacerations. Some were quite deep. I applied a salve that should prevent infection and help with scarring. Several ribs are broken, and there’s not much that can be done about that besides rest. I splinted his leg, but it’s a clean break, so I’m not worried about that. It’s his arm and his hand that concern me.” 

She recalled grabbing Jaskier’s wrist to check for a pulse and the nauseating grind of shards of bone on bone. 

Kacper went on: “I tried to set it the best I could, but… I doubt he’ll regain full function, assuming he doesn’t lose-” Yennefer cut him off, refusing to hear more.

“Are there no other healers in this town?” She asked curtly. 

Kacper shrugged, trying to not look offended. “No others that are academy-trained. There’s the local pellar and few quacks and charlatans, but they’ll be of no help to your friend. You would need a mage well-versed in healing magic, and I know of none in the neighboring towns with the level of skill required. The closest one is, well… He wouldn’t survive the trip. My best advice is-”

Yennefer reached into a purse hidden in the skirt of her dress and pressed a small stack of coins into the apprentice physician’s hand. “Thank you,” she said sharply, without much gratitude, and turned to head back upstairs.

In the dim light of the room, she watched Jaskier sleep peacefully. His breathing had evened out and deepened ever so slightly, and he looked markedly less pale. The poet’s appearance was less distressing after the fine job the medic had done of cleaning him up and bandaging his wounds, even dressing him in warmer clothes to protect him from the wintery cold. From the size, she guessed they had belonged to the heavy-set barkeep. They were by no means the finery that Jaskier preferred, but at least he would not freeze to death.

Her gaze fell upon his injured arm. Of course it would have to be the left one, she thought, the one that required more articulation for lute-playing, though the severity of the injury would have made it career-threatening either way. She tried to imagine a situation in which the musician could lose the use of his hand and not be devastated, and could think of none.

Perhaps the young medic didn’t know a healer that could prevent that scenario from becoming reality, but she did: her longtime friend, the renowned sorceress and healer, Triss Merigold. 

_ ~Triss,~  _ Yennefer reached out with her mind.  _ ~I need your help.~ _

~ _ What do you need, darling? _ ~ Came the reply.

Yennefer conveyed the situation to her, impressing upon her the severity of Jaskier’s injuries and how delicate his condition was.

~ _ I’ll do what I can,~  _ Triss replied. ~ _ But you’ll have to come to Kaer Morhen. I can't leave.~ _

Yennefer tried to argue all of the reasons why it was a bad idea - mostly, she didn’t want to deal with Geralt - but she was unable to convince Triss to come to them instead.

~ _ I need to be here for Princess Cirilla. In fact, I could really use your help. And if Nilfgaard is after Jaskier, he’s safer here. Don’t worry about Geralt, I’ll take care of it.~ _

Exhausted and frustrated, Yennefer groaned and buried her face in her hands. As much as she wanted to avoid the Witcher, it seemed like she had little choice. Destiny was going to keep pulling them together, no matter how hard she fought it. 

Of course, she did have a choice. She had no obligation to help Jaskier. The self-centered enchantress could walk away now and avoid going to Kaer Morhen and dealing with Geralt. She could leave the foolish balladeer in the hands of luck and an inexperienced medic, waiting for death or for Nilfgaard or - perhaps the worst outcome from his perspective - for the day he’d have to accept that he’d never perform again. 

But as she gazed at the poet, deep in slumber and blissfully unaware of the gravity of his situation, she realized that she was bound to him by something other than destiny: even though they were more different than alike, the ways in which they were the same made her feel a certain fondness for him - especially now that he was no longer  _ Geralt's _ bard. Just because they had spent one night together didn't make Jaskier  _ hers _ , however. And that made him all the more appealing to Yennefer.

But that wasn't the reason she was going through all of this trouble to help him, she told herself. Not at all. 

In the end, she convinced herself that the inevitable heartbreak that would result from confronting Geralt would be unpleasant, yet temporary. She would easily accept it if it meant never having to be annoyed by Jaskier's incessant whining about never being able to play music again. That was, of course, if he survived long enough to do so. 

_ ~Fine. We’re coming,~  _ Yennefer eventually answered Triss once she made peace with her decision.  _ ~I just need a few hours to rest. I’ll portal us over to you in the morning.~ _

_ ~Don't you think that's risky?~  _ Triss’ voice echoed with concern in Yennefer’s mind.

_ ~Triss, In your professional opinion as a healer, do you think Jaskier, in his current condition, would survive the trip up the mountain, in winter?~  _

The healer was quiet for a moment, but she had to admit Yennefer was right.  _ ~You have a point. Be careful.~ _

***

Rest did not come easy for Yennefer that night. She laid on the cold, rough wooden floor so as to not disturb Jaskier, and woke herself up several times just to watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. Right around daybreak, she finally gave up on the idea of sleep and reached out again to Triss to inform her of their departure. After carefully gathering up both the bard and his lute - she didn’t go through the trouble of retrieving it just to leave it abandoned in some tavern, after all - the sorceress opened the portal that would take them to Kaer Morhen.

Triss met them upon their arrival, putting greetings and small talk aside as the healer immediately began evaluating Jaskier’s condition and administering potions to the unconscious poet. “This should keep him stable for now. When you said his situation was dire, you weren’t exaggerating, were you?” The redhead asked rhetorically. 

“Will he recover?” The raven-haired enchantress inquired. Triss nodded confidently as she continued to assess Jaskier and admire the medic’s handiwork. She was examining his heavily bandaged and splinted arm when Yennefer asked a follow-up question: “Even that?”

Triss looked up at her friend and offered a reassuring smile. “You know I’ll do my best.” 

They were then interrupted by Vesemir, the oldest of the remaining Witchers, who had detected the surge of magical energy within the keep and went to investigate. “Yennefer. I see Geralt finally swallowed his pride and requested your help with Cirilla.”

“Yes,” she lied. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Vesemir.”

“And I see you brought company.” He looked down at Jaskier, then looked at the sorceresses. “I expect an explanation for this later. In the meantime, let me move him somewhere more comfortable. He’s Geralt’s travel companion, so I’ll leave it up to him to make sure he’s looked after.” 

The old Witcher effortlessly scooped up the bard and the two enchantresses followed as he carried Jaskier to Geralt’s room and placed him on the bed. Vesemir offered no indication that he knew Geralt and Jaskier were no longer on speaking terms, and Yennefer didn’t feel it was the right time to bring it up.

“I’ll let you continue, my child,” the old Witcher said, turning to Triss. “Don’t forget to come speak with me before Geralt returns with Cirilla and the others.” 

Yennefer waited until she was sure they were no long in Vesemir's superhuman hearing range before saying to her friend, “I don’t think Geralt is going to take this well.”   
  
“I suppose not,” Triss said with a shrug. “They’re good friends, aren’t they? I’m sure it’ll come as a shock for him to see Jaskier like this.”

“They’re not friends. Not anymore,” Yennefer confessed. 

Triss’ green eyes widened in astonishment. “And you tell me this now?”

“When was there time?”   
  
“I don’t know, Yen, maybe when you were trying to convince me to come to you instead because you didn’t want to see Geralt?” Triss huffed. “Help me understand. You want nothing to do with Geralt, he wants nothing to do with Jaskier, and now I have to deal with all three of you? Not to mention looking after a princess with unusual powers, and trying to explain the mysteries of womanhood to a bunch of oblivious Witchers.”

“I can leave,” Yennefer suggested dispassionately, triggering her friend to let out a laugh.

“Oh, no, you’re staying here and helping me with Cirilla. And you’re going to help me search this place for more furs and pillows,” said Triss, grabbing Yennefer by the wrist and leading her out of the room.

***

Having finally gotten Jaskier as comfortable he could possibly be and reaching the limit of potions his body could handle for one day, Triss went to go speak with Vesemir as promised, leaving Yennefer alone to watch over the bard and attempt to wake him. Sitting by the bedside, she gently stroked his cheek and whispered a spell.

The bard’s eyes fluttered open, and Yennefer felt a rush of joy and relief when his lapis lazuli gaze met hers.

“Yen?” Jaskier uttered hoarsely. “Did… Did I die?” By the somber expression on his face, Yennefer didn’t think he was joking. She smiled a little anyway, relieved to hear his voice.

“After all I’ve done to save you, I should hope not.” She reached under the fur blanket that covered him to find his uninjured hand and gingerly squeezed it. “I went to meet you in Oxenfurt and you weren’t there. So I went looking for you,” she explained. “What could Nilfgaard possibly have wanted from you?”

“Princess Cirilla,” he answered weakly. “All because of a damned song.” 

“A song?” 

Jaskier struggled to hum a few bars, and it was the same tune Yennefer remembered falling asleep to. “The Lion Cub of Cintra. After you told me she’s still alive, I had to write a song about her, to give people hope. Didn’t take long for Nilfgaard to hear about it. They assumed I knew where she was - and, I  _ do _ , but…” His tired eyes suddenly took on a desperate intensity. “I need you to believe me, I didn't tell them anything.” 

Still holding his hand, Yennefer gently shushed him. “It’s alright, I believe you. There’s no need to speak any further about it. That’s all over now.”

As he started to gain more awareness of his body, the bard shifted ever so slightly in the cocoon of pillows and furs that Triss had built around him and winced. The potions had dulled the pain, but hadn’t killed it completely “I don’t know, this doesn’t feel over to me.” 

“What I mean is…You don’t need to think about Nilfgaard anymore. You’ve got more important things to focus on. You asked if you died? Well, you almost did, and it’s going to be a while before you fully recover.” Yennefer sighed. Jaskier was going to have to hear the truth eventually. “I don’t know how to say this any other way - but it will be a long time before you can play your lute again.” It wasn’t quite the whole truth - still a matter of “if” and not “when” - but she knew that would be more than he could bear.

The ballader let go of Yennefer’s hand to lift up the blanket, and the color drained from his still too pale face as he discovered the state of his arm. He choked back a sob as he tried to will his hand to move, but to no avail. “That’s fine,” he lied to himself. “My lute’s gone anyway.”

“Actually, I found it. Would you like to see it?” Yennefer offered, but the bard wearily shook his head. “Another time, then.” 

The enchantress found herself atypically powerless as Jaskier struggled with the gravity of the situation he was in. She attempted to comfort him by combing his unkempt hair out of his face with her fingers. “It’s going to be alright. You’re safe here.”

“Here? Where is ‘here?’ Wait-” Jaskier glanced around the room, answering his own question before Yennefer could say it. It had been years since he was last there, but he recognized the room in the ancient keep. “Kaer Morhen. Oh no, nononono,” he panicked. “I’d rather you hand me back over to Nilfgaard. Why did you bring me here, of all places?” 

“Because Triss is here. She’s one of the most competent healers I know.”

“What about… Geralt?” Jaskier hesitated to say the Witcher’s name after spending what felt like forever trying to forget it. He was almost disappointed that he hadn’t actually erased the name from his memory. 

Yennefer made her best attempt at a comforting smile. “Just rest for now. We will deal with that when we must.”

***

The pack of Witchers, with Ciri in tow, returned to the keep after a long day on the Trail. Toward the end of their outing, the training had devolved into play, with Geralt, Eskel and Lambert sparring - mostly Geralt and Eskel tag-teaming to attack Lambert - and Coën giving Ciri a piggyback ride back to the old School of the Wolf. They arrived home pleasantly tired and in good spirits, ready for a bath, a meal and perhaps some White Gull.

Once inside, the Witchers’ keen sense of smell told them they had visitors. But it was only Geralt who recognized the scents and knew exactly who had joined them at the keep: the intoxicating perfume of lilacs and gooseberries, and the faint but unmistakable essence of sandalwood and jasmine.

Overcome with bewilderment and fury, he stormed through the halls of the keep and followed the scent trail to his bedroom. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, beloved readers. My apologies for the delay in updating, despite my brag last time that this chapter was half way done. Things deviated from my original outline a bit, as plots sometimes tend to do, and it's been a wild week. I had to put writing on pause to go make weird art (because art is therapy and art is life), and by the time I got back to writing, I decided to take out my stress by wrecking a favorite fictional character a little bit harder than I originally intended. But it's fine. There is the angst tag in there, y'all know what you signed up for. Did you really think I would make anything easy for these three glorious idiots? Ha. 
> 
> By the way, thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments. You're all beautiful people. <3 See you soon with chapter 4!


	4. Hello, My Old Heart

Chapter 4: Hello, My Old Heart

_ Hello, my old heart _

_ It's been so long _

_ Since I've given you away _

_ And every day, I add another stone _

_ To the walls I built around you _

_ To keep you safe _

\- Hello, My Old Heart, The Oh Hellos

  
  
  


“Triss!” Geralt roared as he confronted the redhead blocking the door to his room. “What is the meaning of this?” The rest of the Witchers and Ciri caught up to him and stood from a safe distance behind to observe.

“Keep your voice down,” Triss said quietly, placing her finger against her lips and shushing him.

“You went behind my back and asked Yennefer to come here, after I repeatedly told you not to,” he growled. The Witcher tried to move past Triss to enter his room, but she countered to block him. 

“I didn’t. Let me explain.”

“No, let me.” Yennefer stepped out of the room, passing by Triss’ side to square off with her destiny-bound lover. “I’m not here for my own pleasure, Geralt. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to.” 

But he did want her to be there. He never wanted her to leave him on the mountain in the first place. Yennefer’s amethyst eyes locked on to his, burning with the same intense hurt and fury that they had when last the two had fought and parted ways. 

“Then leave!” he barked, betraying his true desire. Triss shushed him again.

“I will, as soon as the matter I came for is settled.”

“Are you here for Ciri?” 

Yennefer shook her head. “No.” Behind her, she heard Triss clear her throat. “Fine, yes, I said I would help. But it’s certainly not for you. It’s imperative that you know that I want  _ nothing _ to do with you.” Geralt wasn’t the only one acting as a traitor to their own heart. 

Triss sighed and walked past Yennefer and Geralt over to the onlooking pack of Witchers, making awkward eye contact with the three of them. She took Ciri by the hand and spoke to her sweetly, “I bet you’ve had a long day. Let’s go get you cleaned up.” The girl continued to stare at Geralt and Yennefer for a moment before looking up at Triss and nodding.

As the sorceress escorted the princess away from the childish scene unfolding, Ciri uttered offhandedly, “That’s the woman I saw in my dream.”

Yennefer continued. “Of course I haven’t forgotten about the djinn. And I still haven’t forgiven you. Though eventually, I think I could.” She watched a glimmer of hope flicker in the Witcher’s eyes, which she immediately extinguished with what she said next. “But I know what you did to Jaskier. I know how cruel you were to him, when all he ever did was try to be your friend. Perhaps you don’t deserve friends,” she said with a mocking pout. “You took the only normal human that didn’t fear you and threw him away when you needed someone to blame for the consequences of your own selfish actions. And that’s a little harder for me to forgive. I can almost excuse you for ruining my life by meddling with forces that you can’t possibly understand.” Her voice dripped with condescension. “Unlike what you did to me, however, it wasn’t magic that destroyed your relationship with Jaskier. Just your own bad decisions, Geralt.” 

Eskel and Lambert shot each other a knowing look. After growing up together with the White Wolf, they were all too familiar with his decision-making skills. Lambert turned to a confused Coën and mumbled, “I’ll fill you in later.”

“How would you know about any of that?” The Witcher hissed as his jaw tensed with anger. “And why would you care?”

“Because Jaskier told me,” Yennefer answered with a grin, looking quite pleased as she watched Geralt’s frustration level visibly rise. “He told me everything. Or at least enough to convince me that he has more redeeming qualities than you do.” 

“Good to see you two are so close. Is that why you brought him with you, so I can apologize?” 

“You are certainly welcome to take advantage of that opportunity. But no, that isn’t why.”

“Tell me,  _ why _ are you here, Yen?” The Witcher demanded, growing increasingly exasperated. 

“I needed help, and didn’t know who else to turn to but Triss.” 

“With what?” Geralt looked at her, puzzled, hoping she would get to the point. 

“ _ Your bard _ .” Even though she knew that was no longer the case, she referred to Jaskier that way just to see the flash of agitation in Geralt’s cat-like citrine eyes.

The Witcher groaned. “What stupid thing has he done now?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Yennefer folded her arms across her chest and casually shrugged. “Just getting himself captured by Nilfgaard and tortured nearly to death. _ That _ kind of stupid thing.”

Temporarily setting aside his anger in exchange for worry, Geralt darted past Yennefer to enter his room. The enchantress made no attempt to stop him, and instead walked past the still gawking trio of Witchers, greeting the men with a terse nod as she headed in the direction of Triss’ room. With the show over, Lambert and Coën dispersed to go about their business while Eskel lingered in the hall.

When Geralt laid his eyes upon Jaskier, who was once again sleeping as peacefully as he could, his blood ran cold as if he had seen a ghost. The bard’s face was certainly almost as pale as one, his bruised cheekbones too prominent, the hollows under his eyes too dark. But the White Wolf’s sensitive hearing detected the weak heartbeat that informed him that Jaskier was no specter.

Seeking further confirmation that he was not merely imagining Jaskier laying there before him, Geralt pulled back the fur blanket covering his former traveling companion with deliberate slowness as if any sudden movement would cause the figure in his bed to disappear like an apparition. While the bard didn’t vanish, his presence still didn’t feel any more real. Perhaps this was a vision, Geralt wondered, or a dream. Or a nightmare, like the ones he had on restless nights where he murmured in his sleep:  _ Renfri. _

He had almost forgotten how fragile humans could be, and there in front of him was a stark reminder. Though Jaskier was not by any means of a slight build, he looked impossibly small and delicate laid out on Geralt’s bed, ensconced in a nest of pillows that cushioned his broken body. The White Wolf’s anger returned, but this time it was toward Nilfgaard as he pictured what they had done to his bard - his  _ former _ bard - to render him hovering still too precariously close to death. It was clear to him now why Yennefer had brought Jaskier to Triss for help, though he hadn’t had time yet to consider how the sorceress knew the balladeer was in peril in the first place.

Geralt carefully draped the fur back over the sleeping poet, who subsequently stirred and let out a soft whimper. The Witcher froze, staying perfectly still in hopes that Jaskier would not awaken. But as he had the tendency to do, the bard would deny Geralt the easy way out that he so wished for. 

Jaskier attempted to move, perhaps to roll over, but was stopped by the pillows and a jolt of pain. He awoke with a start, and sensing that he was not alone, he looked over to discover a pair of citrine eyes staring at him. “Geralt."

_ Fuck.  _ The Witcher had guessed - hoped - that his path would cross with Jaskier’s again one day, but the situation that had unfolded was not a scenario he had considered. Of all of the words he had rehearsed in his head, he had none at the ready for this reunion. 

“You’ve got nothing to say to me? Really?” The bard filled Geralt’s silence, like always. “Here’s a suggestion: ‘Jaskier, old friend, how are you?’” With great effort, he pushed himself to sit up as much as he could to get a better look at the Witcher, whose face he had forced himself to practically forget. 

It looked to Geralt like an agonizing and monumental task on the bard's behalf, and he couldn’t stand to watch. “Stop,” he ordered gently, and sat down in the chair placed next to the bed so he could speak to Jaskier face to face. He wasn’t ready for what peered back at him. The Witcher couldn’t recall if Jaskier’s eyes had always been so blue, or if they only looked that way in contrast to the dark circles underneath and his pallid complexion, but they gazed at him - or through him - expectantly. 

“Well?” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, feeling left with no choice but to play along. “How are you?” 

The lack of the ‘old friend’ part did not slip past Jaskier unnoticed. “Ah, thank you for asking. Quite well, as you can see,” he said. The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly in a wry grin. The smile was quickly erased as he broke out in a coughing fit, bracing his good hand against his chest. He took a moment to catch his breath. “Sorry for dropping by without notice. The good news is that while I’m here, you won’t have to tolerate my singing, or my lute-playing for that matter.” He tilted his head to gesture toward his heavily bandaged arm. “You can thank Nilfgaard for that.”

The truth was that Geralt had missed Jaskier’s singing. He missed sitting in the dark corners of taverns and listening to him perform in exchange for their room and board, while feigning disinterest the entire time. He missed the musician plucking at his lute late at night after a long day of adventure, looking for the right tune to match the lyrics inspired by the events of the day. It never occurred to the Witcher that he might never get to enjoy those moments ever again.

“Yen told me. What did you do to make Nilfgaard go after you?” To Geralt, his former companion was  _ just a bard _ , not someone that an empire would normally take any interest in.

Jaskier felt his unsteady heart fill with dread. “I… wrote a song. About the princess," he answered timidly. "And they thought… maybe… I would tell them where she was."

"But you didn't know."

"Um,” Jaskier hesitated. “I did. But-"

"How?" Geralt growled. He then remembered what Yennefer had said, how Jaskier had told her "everything," whatever  _ everything _ entailed. He knew how close she was with Triss, close enough to be privy to information about Ciri, and guessed that Yennefer had likewise shared some secrets with the bard while they were becoming the best of friends. "Fuck. Yen. She must not know you well enough to understand that you're incapable of keeping your mouth shut. What did you tell them?"

Jaskier's mouth opened and then closed again, rendered momentarily speechless before he could find words to express his outrage. "How dare- ? Nothing, Geralt, I told them nothing! I can’t believe you think I would- When have I ever betrayed you? I risked my life to protect Cirilla - to protect you. Not that you’d ever do the same!”

_ That's not true,  _ Geralt wanted to say.  _ There was the time with the sylvan and the elves in the Valley of Flowers, the time with the djinn, countless monsters and jealous lovers-  _ But instead, he said nothing. 

In the silence, the Witcher could hear the poet’s heart beating faster, almost dangerously so. Jaskier continued: “No matter what they did, I never- Do you know what they did to me? Look at me, and use your imagination.” Geralt had already taken a good, hard look, and he didn’t need to imagine much. “They went through my thoughts, my memories, looking for the answers I refused to give them. I had to forget you to protect you. By the time I was certain that I was done for, I thought that I would die unable to remember your face or your name. And if it kept them from finding you and the princess, I would have done so, gladly.” 

Now free from Nilfgaard but held captive by Geralt’s gaze, all Jaskier could do was remember. All of the memories he hid from himself came back in a trickle, and then a flood: The day he cornered the brooding Witcher in a tavern in Posada. The nights filled with mostly one-sided conversations by a campfire, or spent at inns sharing beds so narrow their bodies touched. The dragon hunt, when he tried to convince Geralt to give it up and head for the coast together, but everything ended in heartbreak instead. 

_ If life could give me one blessing... _

Jaskier's reverie broke as his resentment towards the Witcher resurfaced. "I bet you wish they’d have finished the job, hm? Nilfgaard could’ve taken me off your hands for good.”

The bard’s words hit Geralt like an unexpected punch to the gut, leaving an ache of regret that he knew he deserved. “That’s not- I’m sorry that I said that.”

Jaskier slowly shook his head. For a long time, he longed to hear those words, and now, after everything he’d gone through, they seemed woefully inadequate. “It’s too late, dear Witcher. You should have apologized on the mountain."

_ I never should have said it at all, _ thought Geralt. But once again, silence.

"I never told you to claim the Law of Surprise at Pavetta’s wedding, I didn’t ask you to go looking for a damned djinn, and I definitely did not suggest that you bind your destiny to Yennefer’s! And yet, you blamed all of that on me. ”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeated. 

“I don’t accept it. And I’m not done! For twenty years, I tried to be your friend. I wrote songs to earn you coin and the respect of the people, but what respect did you give me?" The bard's voice was calm, but his pulse thumped in a way that concerned the Witcher. 

"Jaskier, you're not well, you need to calm-" 

"How often did you insult my intelligence? My songs? You could have at least appreciated me a little. If not for me, you'd still be called the Butcher of Blaviken."

Geralt let out a deep growl, and Jaskier saw what looked like hurt in his amber eyes. At some other time, he might have backed off and offered a joke or some kind words to soothe the White Wolf's wounded ego. But he was in no mood for making peace, and instead, he decided to cut his former companion even deeper. 

"Ah, does that still upset you? It might also bother you to know that I'm a better lover than you." He took a moment to appreciate Geralt's bewilderment. "At least, that's what Yen told me."

“ _ What _ ?” 

“You know, for the longest time, I couldn't stand her. But as it turns out, we like each other just fine. All we had to do was get drunk and sleep together."

“You bastard!” Geralt roared as he stood up, towering over Jaskier, his jaw clenched and his hands balled in fists at his sides. 

Anticipating a violent reaction from the visibly enraged Witcher and fearing for his life, the helpless bard recoiled like a frightened animal. "I shouldn't have said that," he whimpered. 

"You shouldn’t have  _ done _ that! You dare talk about respect?” Geralt shouted. “I’ve always known that you’ve never seen a woman you wouldn’t stick your dick in, but Yen- Of course you didn’t have the sense to leave her alone! Was that your way of getting back at me? Do you think we’re even now?”

“Geralt, I-” Jaskier choked on a cough and struggled to catch his breath. 

“Enough. I want you to leave as soon as you're able. Yen, too." 

“Wait! Please-!” As Geralt started to step away from Jaskier’s bedside, the bard reached out to grab him, but the Witcher evaded his grasp. He collapsed back into the nest of pillows and closed his eyes, listening to Geralt stomp out and slam the door behind him. Alone, in agony, and full of regret, the poet began to weep.

***

Triss whipped around to face the door of her room as it flew open and Geralt stormed in. 

“Yen!” he snarled as he grabbed the raven-haired enchantress by the arm. He looked down at Ciri, and his grip on Yennefer eased. “Yen,” he repeated, somewhat gentler. “We need to talk.” 

Ciri’s worried glance leapt from Geralt to Yennefer to Triss, then back to Geralt. 

Yennefer offered the girl a slight smile of reassurance, then glared at the Witcher. “Of course. I’d love to,” she said with cloying sweetness, yanking herself free from Geralt’s grasp. “Let’s step outside, shall we?” 

Geralt’s softened demeanor lasted until they were both standing in the hall, several paces away from Triss’ room, far enough to be out of Ciri’s earshot.

“What in the fuck did you do with Jaskier?” The Witcher's booming voice echoed in the halls of the keep.

Yennefer folded her arms across her chest. “I rescued him from Nilfgaard. Was I not supposed to?”

“ _ Before _ that!”

“What are you getting at, Geralt?” 

“I know  _ what  _ you did. I just need to know  _ why _ .”

The enchantress rolled her eyes. “ _ Why _ ? Why does it matter? It’s not as if you and I haven’t taken other lovers before. Besides… Djinn or no djinn, I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me.”

Geralt couldn’t deny that she was right. But he was still outraged and crestfallen, and struggled to understand why her affair with the bard felt so much like betrayal. “Of all of the men you could have chosen to do that with, why him?”

Yennefer let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t really want me to tell you, but I will anyway. He’s intelligent, and eloquent - when he isn’t trying to flirt. He’s easy to talk to, after a drink or two. He’s a fool, but he’s not intimidated by me. Just like he’s not intimidated by you.”

The image flashed in Geralt’s mind of Jaskier flinching in reaction to his explosion of fury. Perhaps things had changed. 

“And surely, after all of that time you two were together, you must have seen him in the nude at least once.” She grinned coquettishly. “Under all of that ridiculous finery, I didn’t expect him to look like that.”

Geralt’s ire flared, mostly because he once again had to accept that Yennefer was telling the truth. He had indeed seen his travel companion unclothed many times, and could picture it clearly. He then pictured Yennefer naked as well, and imagined the two of them together,  _ his _ exquisitely beautiful lover and  _ his  _ alluringly handsome bard - but not his anymore.

“Mm, and the things he can do with his mouth-”

“Stop!” Geralt shouted. He heard a door open, and looked to see Ciri’s head peeking out into the hall. 

“Is everything okay? Are you fighting?” Ciri called to the grown-ups. “Vesemir said no yelling, remember?”

Geralt sighed, and Yennefer noticed the Witcher’s sharp edges melt away. “Sorry, Ciri, we’ll keep it down. We just got a little heated. Don’t worry about it. Tell Triss we’re fine and we’ll be right there.” The princess went back into the room and closed the door behind her, and Geralt returned his attention to Yennefer. 

Calmly and resolutely, he spoke, “I want you to leave.”

“Is that what you really want? I need you to consider your words carefully,” Yennefer warned. “I know you’re mad at me, and I know you’re mad at Jaskier. But I know how infuriated you were the last time I left, and you took it out on Jaskier, didn’t you?”

She took Geralt’s silence as a “yes,” which it was.

“Listen to me, and listen to me carefully, because I will not say this again: You constantly tempt destiny by saying and doing things that you don’t mean, and then you run away from it when you get exactly what you asked for. As long as you keep doing that, you’re going to continue reaping the consequences. What will you do if you ask me to leave, and I do? Lash out at Ciri? What will you do if you tell Jaskier to fuck off again, and he’s gone for good?”

Before Geralt could even consider Yennefer’s questions, his thoughts were interrupted by the commotion of Eskel sprinting down the hall to Triss’ room and banging on the door. “Triss!” he bellowed. “Come quick! It’s Jaskier! I went to check up on him, and- You need to hurry!”

In a surge of panic, Geralt’s stomach churned and his knees almost gave way, delaying his instinct to run to be by his old friend’s side. Yennefer watched him falter and grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him, and together they rushed back to Geralt’s room, with Triss not far behind.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, dear readers, I am deeply appreciative of every kudo and comment that I've gotten so far. <3 Thank you!
> 
> Second, I'm on tumblr now @ bluejaycalling! I have no idea what I'm doing! But let's be friends! <3 I promise I am super nice. :3
> 
> Third! My BFF is writing stuff again, and she wrote something super cute as a gift to me, so please go check out the incredibly talented Siyah_Kedi.
> 
> 4th... I'm going to try to keep up the pace of updating weekly-ish. I promise there is fluff in store eventually! I also might do some one-shot kinda stuff on the side? I'm always open to suggestions.
> 
> Stay hydrated, don't forget to moisturize, and I'll see you next chapter <3


	5. I Took My Chance and Bit Down Deep

Chapter 5: I Took My Chance and Bit Down Deep

_I took my chance and bit down deep_

_The weight of the world was crippling_

_Now I'll hide my shame with woven leaves_

_I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong_

_And I'm so so, and I'm so so sorry_

\- I Was Wrong, The Oh Hellos

“Get him out of here!” Triss shouted to Eskel, who obliged and threw his arms around Geralt. Before getting dragged away from the bard’s bedside, Geralt caught a glimpse of Jaskier, struggling to breathe, with bloody froth on his lips. He fought against Eskel’s grasp, but his fellow Witcher matched his strength and managed to pull him out of the room. Yennefer was about to close the door behind them when her eyes met Geralt’s.

“Save him, Yen. No matter the cost!” Geralt pleaded as the door shut in his face.

Eskel finally let go of him, and with nowhere else for his pent up anger and hurt to go, the restless White Wolf began to pace the hall in front of the room like an animal in a cage, staring down the door as if doing so would somehow will it to open.

“Trying to dig a trench?” Eskel teased. “You’re going to wear out the floor.”

“What else do you expect me to do?” Geralt snapped. 

“Let’s go for a walk.” Eskel got a dismissive grunt in response. “Wasn’t giving you a choice. Come on.” 

The pair walked silently through the halls of the keep before Eskel finally spoke up. “You could have told us that you and Jaskier weren’t on good terms anymore.”

Geralt shrugged. “It’s not important.”

“Yeah, about as unimportant as him sleeping with Yennefer.”

Geralt groaned. “You heard it, hm?”

“Every word. I was standing in the hall the whole time, waiting for my chance to pop in and say hello. I missed having him around.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted.

“As if you didn’t miss him, too.”

“I didn’t-” Geralt started to say. But then he thought about what Yennefer said, about tempting fate by saying things he didn’t mean, and then moments later, hearing Jaskier's wheezing gasps for air. He felt his insides churn and fought back the urge to run back and break down the door. “Perhaps,” he confessed. 

“I know you’re not thrilled about what he did, but maybe you should try to contain your anger for now. Considering, well… You saw him. I think he’s got enough to worry about. Besides, it’s not like Yen’s his first choice.”

“He could have picked any woman in the whole damn Continent. Why Yen?”

“She's beautiful, why not? And she’s a lot like you. Makes perfect sense to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eskel grinned. “I mean, Jaskier’s got a type.”

“Yeah, anyone that will give him attention.”

Esksel stopped dead in his tracks, and Geralt gave him a puzzled look. “Oh, you’re being serious. You really don’t know."

"What don't I know? Just tell me. I'm in no mood for games." 

Eskel put it as plainly as he could: "Your bard’s in love with you. Has been for years. I don’t know how you missed it.” Geralt looked for a hint of teasing in Eskel's voice, a smirk, or anything that would indicate that what he said was in fact a joke, but he was serious. The White Wolf gaped at his fellow Witcher.

Eskel chuckled at Geralt’s reaction, then continued. "I guess if I said I was surprised that you haven't figured it out by now, I'd be a liar. You never have been quick on the uptake. But I remember the last time you brought Jaskier here, and all the times before that. I saw the way he is with you, standing a little too close, getting a little too handsy. I wish someone would look at me the way he looks at you.”

"You can have him then. It’s not like I’m interested," Geralt said, making a dismissive gesture.

“No, thanks. Clearly, you’re the jealous type.”

Geralt scowled, just a little mad at Eskel for eavesdropping on his confrontation with Jaskier. Then again, he couldn’t be too angry. If Eskel hadn’t been waiting for his turn to check in on the bard, the chances were high that- 

He refused to think about that possibility further, and reassured himself that Jaskier would be fine in Triss’ capable hands. He briefly looked in the direction they came from, feeling a pull on his heart to go back and wait outside his room. At that moment, there was nothing he wouldn’t have given for another chance to look into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, say all of the things he should’ve said in the first place, and make things right with Jaskier before it really was too late.

As if Eskel had read his mind, he added: “You’re also completely full of shit.” 

***

Between the mental and emotional stress of confronting Geralt and pushing his weakened body past its limits, Jaskier had managed to all but undo Triss’ initial healing work and reopen his internal wounds. After nearly losing him and depleting her energy stores to bring him back and repair the damage, Triss was fairly certain that she finally had the situation under control, however. 

"I'm completely spent," Triss said to Yennefer, suppressing a yawn. “I shouldn’t be this exhausted.”

Yennefer, who was also tired, sat next to the bed absentmindedly stroking Jaskier’s arm. She looked over at her friend. “It hasn’t been that long since Sodden Hill,” she reminded Triss. “You’re still recovering, too.”

“That’s true. But I can still fix this,” the redhead said, beaming confidently despite her fatigue. “It will just... take longer than I’d like.”

“And longer than he’d like, I imagine.” Yennefer gestured at Jaskier. 

“Hmm…” As Triss went over the list in her mind of the bard’s injuries, the self-assured look on her face waned slightly. “Assuming that I just took care of everything life-threatening once and for all… at this rate, it might take at least the rest of winter. Flesh is easy to heal, but bone… Even at my strongest, it’s not instant. It’ll be several weeks before he can walk again, and his arm…” 

“I’d like to remind you,” said Jaskier, his eyes closed and his voice barely above a whisper, “that I’m still here, and I can hear you.”

Triss cringed. “I’m sorry. And no more talking for now, please. My magic won’t hold if you don't allow yourself to rest. You have to be careful not to overexert yourself like that again.”

Jaskier’s eyes opened a crack and he looked up at Triss, pouting apologetically. “I couldn’t control myself. I saw Geralt and I just-”

“Shhh, darling,” Yennefer said, brushing her thumb along his cheek to wipe away a tear. 

“You don’t understand.” The poet’s voice trembled. “I was so worried that I would give Nilfgaard what they wanted that I all but erased him from my memories. And then, I saw his face again and I remembered everything…” More tears fell. “I wish I could’ve forgotten about him completely. It would be easier that way.”

“Do you mean that?” Yennefer asked. Her face lit up in a way that Triss recognized and didn’t like.

“No, Yen, don’t-” Triss attempted to interject.

“I do,” Jaskier said with a weak nod.

“Then I may be able to offer you some assistance.” Yennefer smiled sweetly, and Triss sighed. She didn’t have the energy to argue with her friend about why what she was plotting was potentially a very bad idea.

“Will it hurt?” Jaskier asked, remembering how excruciating it was when the mage was poking around his thoughts, unsure if he could handle more pain.

Yennefer shook her head. “No. You won’t feel a thing.”

“Can it be undone?” 

“That depends,” the sorceress answered cryptically. 

“On what?”

Yennefer smiled slyly. “On whether Geralt can prove to you that he’s worth remembering.”

***

_As if Eskel had read his mind, he added: “You’re also completely full of shit.”_

“What?” Geralt said, a bit distracted as the image of the bard’s lapis lazuli eyes lingered in his thoughts.

“You said you’re not interested. In Jaskier. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, other than yourself. I noticed the way you look at him, too, when you think no one’s paying attention. Lambert even asked me about it once.” 

_Fuck._ “And what did you say?” Geralt questioned the veracity of that claim, considering that Lambert hadn’t bullied him relentlessly over it yet.

“We both agreed it would be more fun to watch you figure out your feelings on your own than for us to needle you.” Eskel grinned mischievously, reminding Geralt of their youthful troublemaking days. “But I don’t think it occurred to either of us that it would take so long, or require Jaskier to almost die first.”

A shiver of dread ran down Geralt’s spine. He knew he should have learned his lesson about the dangers of having feelings for mortals after what happened with Renfri. Eventually, they would die, and the chances were great that he, himself, The Butcher of Blaviken, would be the death of them. 

In this case, he couldn't take the blame for Jaskier getting himself captured by Nilfgaard. But still, he wondered, if he hadn't have pushed the troubadour away on the mountain, it might have all been avoided. In this alternate timeline that existed in Geralt’s fantasies, Jaskier might be sitting by the fire in the evening hall, penning another song that would add to his fame, or playing his lute to keep Ciri entertained, or, he dared to imagine, laying next to him under the covers. Meanwhile in reality, though the bard was indeed in the Witcher’s bed, he was too fragile to be held, fighting for his life at that very moment, and facing the possibility of never touching his instrument again if he made it.

If only he had accepted the bard's invitation to run away to the coast, Geralt thought, he might have kept Jaskier safe. He might have kept him at all, for that matter. And Yen, too. In the world that existed only in his imagination, he could have them both. It suddenly made sense to the Witcher why he was so infuriated by Yennefer and Jaskier’s affair. It wasn’t because they had slept together, it was because they were together, without him.

Eskel knew Geralt well enough to read the expression on his face, assuming he wasn’t actually reading his thoughts. Sometimes, Geralt wondered if perhaps that was the case. “Look at it this way: at least you’re coming to terms with your feelings before it’s too late.”

“It _is_ too late,” Geralt said despondently. “Jaskier will never forgive me.”

“Never say never. He will, eventually. And Yen, too. You have to earn it, and it won’t be easy, which I know you hate.” As if on cue, Eskel’s words elicited a scowl from Geralt. “But nothing worthwhile is ever easy.” 

Geralt made another quick glance back in the direction of his room, and Eskel sighed. “Fine, we can head back and wait if you want, as long as you don’t pace a hole into the floor. You’ve dug yourself into enough holes as it is.” Geralt grunted his disapproval for Eskel’s wordplay, but he had to admit that he was right. 

The door was open by the time the Witchers returned. Geralt hesitated to enter, and was given a literal nudge of encouragement by Eskel gently shoving him over the threshold. Geralt turned back to look at the other Witcher, who grinned and gave him a subtle wink before walking away.

Before Geralt laid his eyes upon the bard, he heard his heartbeat - still weak but stable, and most importantly, there at all. At that moment, no sound had ever been so beautiful to him, and no sight more sublime than Jaskier in his bed, deep in a tranquil slumber, with no trace of his earlier distress. 

Yen looked up from her seat next to the bed, holding Jasker’s hand as he slept. She let go and stood from the chair, leaning over to kiss the poet tenderly on the forehead before walking over to Geralt. 

“We saved him, just as you asked.” The enchantress looked exhausted but pleased with herself. “Had Eskel not happened to check in on him when he did, it might have been a different story. And I don’t think Triss will be able to fix something that severe again any time soon.” She tilted her head to gesture toward the redhead, who was curled up in a fur blanket on the floor, completely drained. “If you get him worked up again, you’re going to kill him, Geralt. Do you understand that?”

“I do,” the Witcher replied solemnly. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Now, I have a favour to ask you.”

Geralt braced himself for something unpleasant. He knew he’d begged the sorceresses to save Jaskier at any cost, however, and would happily do whatever Yennefer asked. 

“Triss believes it's going to take Jaskier a long time to recover, and as long as he's bedridden, he shouldn't be left alone. Triss has her hands full with Ciri, and I know you do too, but she needs us both to help look after him. Do you think you can manage that?”

Relief washed over Geralt. “Of course.”

Yennefer smirked. “You answered a little too eagerly, considering you never wanted to see him again. Have a sudden change of heart?” 

Geralt felt a pang of guilt and regret that made his temper flare. “Back off. We can talk about it later, but not now.” He quickly regained his composure. “I said I’ll help take care of him. But don’t you think he’ll mind? After everything that was said?”

Yennefer glanced over at Jaskier, then back at Geralt, and shrugged. “I don’t think that matters anymore.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say to that, but he hoped it was true. “I’ll stay with him tonight. You’ve already done enough. I’m… I’m grateful. And I’m… sorry.” 

Yennefer folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the behavior Geralt was displaying. She wasn’t completely sure she could trust it, but he sounded sincere enough. Maybe Ciri was making him soft after all. “Perhaps I’ll consider accepting your apology.” She saw the Witcher’s face light up with hope. “But you’re going to have to prove it.”

“I will. I’m going to prove it to Jaskier, too.”

Listening to him say the exact words she wanted to hear but wasn't yet expecting, Yennefer dropped her defensive stance to put her arms around Geralt. After taking a moment to process what was happening, the Witcher reciprocated, holding her close and inhaling her perfume. He temporarily lost track of time, escaping to the world in his mind where he could hold on to Yen forever, where there had never been a reason to let go. If their embrace went on too long, she wasn’t complaining about it. She pulled back, and her eyes met Geralt’s, intense amethyst and brilliant citrine. For a second she wondered if she would have to make the first move, but he pressed his mouth against hers for a passionate but brief kiss. 

“You and Triss need to get some rest,” Geralt said, his arms still around Yennefer.

“If anything changes-”

“I’ll come get you.”

Yennefer smirked. “I was going to say deal with it yourself.”

He let her go, and she went to gather Triss from off of the floor, who mumbled as Yennefer helped her to her feet. 

“Good night, Geralt," the raven-haired enchantress said sweetly as she led Triss out into the hall.

Left alone with Jaskier, the Witcher sat down next to the bed and watched him sleep. Not requiring much sleep himself, it was something Geralt had done often on their travels together, especially when they slept under the stars where danger was just a set of sharp teeth or a bandit’s sword away and he needed to be at the ready to defend himself and his bard, sleeping peacefully without a care in the world. This felt similar somehow, watching over Jaskier. Except in this instance, he felt helpless to protect him, should his life be in danger again.

Geralt desperately longed to crawl in bed and hold Jaskier like he held Yen, like he'd never let him go, and breathe in the scent of him. _Patience,_ he told himself, and moved from the chair to kneel next to the bed and get as close as he safely could. He gingerly took Jaskier's hand in his and ran his thumb over the bard's knuckles before kissing them lightly.

_I'm going to make this right,_ he promised himself, eager to repeat it to the bard - _his_ bard - as soon as he could. _No matter how long it takes, I'm going to fix it. Just don't leave me yet. Please._

***

“How long until he notices, do you think?” Triss mumbled as Yennefer helped her into bed.

“Not long at all. Morning, probably.”

“Do you regret it yet?”

“No.” Perhaps Yennefer regretted it just a little. She didn’t expect Geralt to change his tune so quickly, and she had no clue as to what had inspired it, other than the sobering reality of witnessing his former best friend almost die. 

In any case, she hoped he would keep his promise and prove how sorry he was. Not just for Jaskier’s sake, but for hers. As much as Geralt had missed her, Yennefer missed her Witcher, too, and longed to have him back. 

And as for Jaskier? Well, she had gone to meet him in Oxenfurt for a reason, the same reason that drove her to track him down and rescue him from Nilfgaard. Even though the bard was different from Geralt in almost every possible way, she wanted him just the same. She wanted them _both_ , and Geralt would just have to come to terms with that, she thought, not knowing yet that he already had come to a similar conclusion.

***

Geralt snapped out of his meditative state at the sound of Jaskier moaning. Usually, the Witcher would accuse the bard of being overly dramatic, but in his current state it seemed an appropriate response. He scrambled to get as close to Jaskier’s side as he could and saw him squirming to get comfortable, unsuccessfully.

“What hurts?” 

“My arm,” the poet whimpered, holding the splinted limb protectively against his chest. “My leg... My... everything.” So maybe he was still being a touch dramatic, Geralt thought, but he’d let it go.

A bottle of potion for pain relief, one safe for non-Witcher consumption, was sitting on the table where Triss had left it. Geralt swiftly uncorked it and pressed it to Jaskier’s lips. The taste was unpleasant, but the bard consumed it gladly. Setting the empty bottle back on the table, the Witcher adjusted the pillows propping up Jaskier’s broken leg. 

“Better?” he asked, kneeling down next to the bed again. 

“Much,” the balladeer answered, sounding a little less in agony. “Thank you.”

There was something about the way Jaskier said ‘thank you’ that didn’t sit right with Geralt. It sounded too formal, too distant. But after the way things ended the last time they spoke, he supposed he should be grateful that he was speaking to him at all. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt spoke, eliciting a look from his former friend that he could only describe as ‘baffled.’ “I’m sorry I treated you so terribly. Yesterday… On the mountain… For all of these years I’ve known you. You didn’t deserve any of it. I should’ve shown you more respect. I should’ve shown you that… you’re important to me." He paused, anticipating some kind of reaction, but there was none. He continued.

"I pushed you away, not because I thought I'd be happier living without you, but because I thought you'd be better off and safer without me. And so I wasn't there to protect you. But I'm here now, and I'm going to make everything right. Please, give me a chance to prove it to you. I'm... sorry, and..." Geralt stumbled over his words as he struggled to say the truth. "And… I love you."

There was a moment of unnerving silence.

“That’s very lovely, but…”

Geralt hung his head in defeat. “I know. You can’t forgive me.”

“It’s just that…”

The Witcher looked up, expecting to see hurt or sadness in Jaskier’s eyes, and hear another litany of grievances related to their broken friendship. Instead, it was worse.

The troubadour looked confused and embarrassed as he confessed, “...I haven’t the slightest idea who you are.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate getting (almost) 1000 hits, I decided to publish chapter 5 a little early :3 
> 
> As always, I am grateful for all of the love you darling readers give me in the form of kudos and comments. I treasure every single one. Even if there's some... uh... frowning loudly... at my cliffhanger endings. This ended up being a slow burn of sorts, so I gotta keep folks coming back somehow, yeah? 
> 
> Anyway! Hope you enjoyed it. Until next time <3


	6. And Like the Dawn

Chapter 6: And Like the Dawn

_ You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen _

_ Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings _

_ And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me _

_ You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you _

-Like The Dawn, The Oh Hellos

_ This has to be a joke,  _ Geralt thought.  _ The cruelest one I’ve ever been told, but a joke nonetheless.  _

A nervous laugh involuntarily escaped the Witcher. He was prepared for the possibility that Jaskier would reject his apology or scoff at his confession of love, but that the poet would deny knowing him at all was unthinkable. 

"There’s no need for that. Just tell me you hate me and never want to speak to me again. That's punishment enough."

Jaskier’s confused look shifted to one of sympathy. "Why would I hate you? I don’t even know you.” 

“What do you mean, you don’t know me?" 

"I mean I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you until now, Master Witcher. And trust me, I'd remember someone like you, with hair like moonlight and that distinguished..." Jaskier trailed off, and Geralt could almost feel the bard looking him up and down. "...Chin." Jaskier's grin was subtle, his usual radiance dulled by pain and fatigue, but the White Wolf remembered the first time he saw the bard smile like that. 

Jaskier, still a teenager, cornered him in a tavern in Posada, looking like someone walking gleefully into the worst mistake they would ever make. He couldn’t recall a single thing that the troubadour said, but that cocksure grin was permanently etched into Geralt’s mind.

"Don't you remember Posada? The Valley of Flowers? Attending Pavetta's wedding?"

_ Getting attacked by the djinn because you were trying to prove to me that djinns aren't real, the time I left you behind after the dragon hunt-  _ No, best not to mention anything too unpleasant, Geralt reasoned. Those memories were better off forgotten.

"That all sounds vaguely familiar, but…" Jaskier made a genuine effort to jog his memory, but could only remember bits and pieces. Though brief flashes of detail remained, it was mostly a blur of color and shadow, muffled sound, the impression of having thought or felt something, with no hint of what it had been. "...I don't know what you have to do with any of that."

The time he was bitten by a ghoul hurt Geralt markedly less than his bard's unwillingness - or inability - to recognize him. "Jaskier," he growled. "Don't do this!"

The poet's eyes widened and he attempted to sink himself deeper into the nest of pillows and furs surrounding him. "I don't know- How… how do you even know my name?" 

The Witcher knew his bard was a talented performer - _ If only I told him so more often _ , he thought - but by now, he was entirely convinced that this was not an act. 

Geralt sensed the poet’s pulse quickening and Yennefer’s warning echoed in his head:  _ You’re going to kill him. _

Geralt took a slow, deep breath. “Okay. It's okay.” Nothing about this was okay, but pushing the limits of Jaskier's delicate condition again would make it infinitely worse. “My mistake. I’m going to get Yen and Triss.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Do you know them?” 

“Of course. Yen brought me here, and I owe Triss my life.” Jaskier answered without a second thought, leaving Geralt feeling all the more gutted. "Pardon me, but since you seem to know who I am already, may I have your name, Master Witcher?" 

"Geralt," he replied. It took everything he had within him to maintain his composure and calm his racing thoughts.

_ This isn't happening. He's just messing around to get back at me. We're going to laugh about this later. He's known me half his life, he can't just-.  _

"Geralt," Jaskier echoed back, like the name was on his tongue for the first time. Like he'd never whined it after a long day of walking, or never shouted it in fear as a monster approached, or never sung it in a ballad about the Witcher's heroics. "Lovely name. Would sound delightful in a song." 

Upon coming to the realization that he was meeting Jaskier for the first time all over again, Geralt's heart shattered. He forced himself to smile, grateful that his mutations included the inability to shed tears. “That…” Just because there were no tears to cry didn’t mean there was no urge to choke them back. “That’d be nice.”

***

Triss and Yennefer awoke to a knock on the door and Geralt’s voice calling their names, not with anger, but like a desperate animal caught in a trap. 

_ ~I think he knows about it now,~  _ Triss spoke telepathically to Yennefer, getting up to answer the door.  _ ~I hope you’re prepared to deal with whatever mess you’ve made, because I want no part in it.~ _

“Good morning, Geralt.” The run-down and bleary-eyed sorceress greeted him with little enthusiasm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit at this early hour? And if you tell me that something is wrong with Jaskier-”

“There’s something  _ very _ wrong, Triss!” 

“Did you stress him to death?” Yennefer joined Triss at the door. “I thought I told you-”

“It’s his memory, he- He doesn’t remember… me. He knows who you both are, but not-” Geralt looked like he was seconds away from being unable to hold himself together any longer. “Not me. He’s forgotten me completely.”

“As troubling as that may be, there’s little I can do, if anything,” Triss said, trying to come off as sympathetic as possible. “He’s gone through quite a bit of trauma. He almost died.”

“Twice,” Yennefer interjected. 

“That can cause some damage to the mind. And Yennefer mentioned a mage tortured him with some invasive telepathy. That can come with side effects, too,” Triss explained. 

“There must be something you can do, some sort of potion, or a spell you can try. I- He needs your help,” Geralt pleaded, looking grief-stricken. 

Triss sighed. “It isn’t that simple. Some things are harder than others to heal, and some are just beyond my ability. The mind is one of those things.”

“So you’re telling me it’s… gone,” Geralt growled. “Twenty years of memories of me, of us. Gone, forever.”

“It could be temporary.” Triss offered some optimism with a reassuring smile, but Geralt looked even closer to breaking down.

Triss shot Yennefer a glance.  _ ~You need to fix this.~ _

_ ~I can’t, even if I wanted to,~  _ Yennefer replied.  _ ~Only Geralt can undo it.~ _

_ ~Then tell him how, Yen!~ _

_ ~Sorry, Triss. You know it doesn’t work that way.~ _

“Geralt,” the raven-haired enchantress spoke up, “Triss is right. His memories might come back on their own. But why not see this as an opportunity to start over?”

“Start over?” the White Wolf snarled like something wild and wounded. 

“Yes. You hurt him terribly. Now he can get to know you without all of that, assuming that you don’t fuck it up again.” Yennefer smirked. “Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky that this happened.”

“He  _ loved  _ me,” Geralt choked out. 

“I know.”

“What if he can’t… again?”

“Then he won’t,” she answered plainly. 

Geralt felt as if his soul, or whatever it was that Witchers possessed instead, had left his body. “I love him, Yen.”

Yennefer smiled. “I know that, too. That’s why I’m not concerned."

“You two can keep talking, but since I can't be of any help, I’m going back to sleep if you don’t mind,” Triss said as she turned away from the door and headed back to bed. Yennefer stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her so she could continue the conversation with Geralt and give Triss some well-deserved peace and quiet.

"What do I do now?" The dispirited Witcher looked more like a kicked puppy than the White Wolf.

Yennefer reached up to trace her fingers along his tense jawline, which relaxed slightly at her touch. “Keep loving him, like you should have in the first place. Now that you’re willing to admit it, there’s no reason that should change. He needs you now more than ever. And don’t forget, Ciri and the other Witchers need you, too.”

“And you?” 

The sorceress huffed out a laugh. “What about me? Are you asking if I need you?” 

Geralt nodded wordlessly.

“I don’t  _ need _ you. But I want you.” The sorceress’ amethyst eyes lit up as she grinned. “And if all goes well, maybe we all eventually can have what we want.”

“Hm?” the Witcher grunted. 

“Tell me the real reason you got so irrationally upset over Jaskier and I sleeping together, considering neither of us have seen you or heard from you in more than two years.” Still grinning, she folded her arms across her chest.

A pained growl escaped Geralt’s throat. He couldn’t understand why Yennefer would torment him with this now when he was already hurting.

“Use your words, please. Here, I’ll help make it easier: Are you jealous of him… or me?”

“...Both,” Geralt forced himself to say. Yennefer took a moment to relish the Witcher’s obvious discomfort. 

“Mhmm… Well,” The enchantress rewarded his honesty by closing the distance between them, pressing her body against his as she spoke softly into his ear: “We both wished you were there, too. Maybe next time, we’ll invite you.” 

Geralt’s breath hitched and the hair on the back of neck stood on end. As he pictured himself, Yennefer, and Jaskier entwined together, the sorceress could feel something else arise against her thigh. 

“Patience, darling,” she whispered, and took a step back. “First, you still have to prove to me that your apology was genuine, and then I’ll consider it. Besides, it will be quite some time before Jaskier is able to join us anyway.”

Geralt snapped himself out of his fantasy with the reminder that the bard didn’t even recognize him anymore. He felt a little guilty for even dreaming up such an encounter with someone that barely knew his name. “You’re assuming he’d want that... with me.”

“He did before, he could again. Hence why I said maybe we can all have what we want…  _ eventually _ .”

“And there’s nothing you can do to help? With his memory?”

“I’m going to help,” Yennefer said, then clarified, “with training your Child Surprise and nursing your-  _ our _ bard back to health. The rest… that’s up to you, time, and luck.”

Geralt had taken on a great many difficult contracts during his Witcher career, and yet nothing seemed as daunting as the quest he now had to make Jaskier to fall in love with him again. 

“Speaking of Ciri,” he said, eager to change the subject, “We’re training with Coën this morning. Could you look after Jaskier?”

Yennefer nodded. “Of course. When you return, we can swap, and I’ll spend some time with Ciri.”

“We’ll be back by noon.” Geralt started to turn away to head toward Ciri’s room, then paused as if he suddenly remembered something he’d forgotten. He looked at the enchantress with a certain softness in his citrine eyes and a bittersweet smile. “Thank you, Yen.” 

***

Yennefer’s infiltration of the Nilfgaardian outpost had ultimately led to the fiery demise of almost a third of the stationed troops, and the commander demanded retaliation. The previous day was spent surveying the damage, tending to the wounded, and interviewing survivors lucid enough to provide their testimony. All of them described the same culprit: A dark-haired female, dressed in black, and a user of magic. It had been determined that in addition to the death and structural damage she caused, she also managed to escape with the captive they’d been questioning in regards to Princess Cirilla’s whereabouts. 

There was something else Yennefer had absconded with too, unbeknownst to her. 

The mage portaled back to the make-shift prison and frantically searched the storage room, looking for the precious item he had hidden amongst the confiscated belongings. Still unable to find it, he turned everything upside down and inside out, terrified that Nilfgaard had already found the artifact he managed to keep secret. 

Suddenly he noticed that something was missing: a lute case.  _ The _ lute case, since there had been only one. And what need did Nilfgaard have for something like that, the mage had reasoned, when he slipped his ill-gotten treasure inside to smuggle out later. Surely, no one would notice or miss it. 

He remembered the last time he saw it. A dark-haired sorceress, dressed in black, stared him down with piercing amethyst eyes as she prepared her attack. And slung over her shoulder was the lute case.

“Ulrich! There you are. The commander wants to speak with you.” The mage spun around to see a soldier standing behind him. 

“I’ll be right there,” the mage replied, and started putting the storage room back together. 

“Now. I’ve been ordered to escort you.” 

Ulrich had been allowed so much autonomy by Nilfgaard to conduct business in his own way, but he knew better than to test the boundaries. “Let’s go now, then.”

The commander was less than pleased with Ulrich for not killing the intruder and allowing her to escape, especially with a prisoner. But that was the past, and what was done was done. All he cared about now was how Ulrich was going to make it up to him. 

“Reports say she’s a mage, like _ you _ .” The commander made no secret of his disdain for magic-users. He knew very well that while their services could prove useful, in the end, they were only as loyal as their self-interest would allow. Ulrich was no exception to the rule. “Why did you let her go? You’re not working with her, are you?”

“No, sir. In my defense, I barely escaped with my life.”

The commander nodded in understanding. “You’re a coward, I know. But she still managed to kill many of my men, and maim several more. And you let her flee. So I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself, Ulrich. Track her down and bring her to me, or I’ll have you put in dimeritium shackles for the rest of your miserable days.” 

Ulrich swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’ll find her, sir.”

“Very well. I want you to find the prisoner she took, too.”

“You want me to look for a corpse?”    
  


The commander ignored Ulrich’s insolence. “I wasn’t aware the prisoner was dead.”

“He is, sir,” Ulrich said confidently. “I had him put out of his misery. He knew nothing useful and served no further purpose.”

“Very well. Then just the sorceress will do.”

When Ulrich said the captive was dead, he believed it. He was certain no human could, or should, survive that kind of brutality. But his intuition led him to think that perhaps his prisoner had pulled through after all. And if he was still alive, perhaps he could lead Ulrich to the sorceress, or more importantly, to his missing treasure. 

_ Good thing I have a way to find out,  _ he mused.

***

“You’re looking a lot better this morning,” Yennefer commented to Jaskier, genuinely surprised considering his condition had been dire the night before. It was no wonder to her now that Triss was so sapped of energy, since she had clearly put everything she had and then some into healing the bard. “How do you feel?” 

“Fine, I suppose.” For the typically loquacious performer to give such a curt answer, Yennefer thought it safe to assume he didn’t feel fine at all, and it was probably best to leave it at that. “Something odd happened.”

“Oh?” Yennefer settled down in the chair next to the bed. 

“A Witcher I’ve never met before - but he knew my name, somehow - was in here, apologizing for who knows what, just incredibly confused. The poor thing,” Jaskier said with a pout. “Something was definitely wrong with him. Is Triss taking care of him as well?”

“You could say that. He wasn’t bothering you, was he? Being rude, or growly, or anything like that?”

“Oh, no. Well, perhaps a bit growly, yes, but he seemed kind enough. Just a bit…” Jaskier made a gesture indicating that Geralt was perhaps short of a marble or two. “What was his name again? Gerald? No…”

“Geralt?

“Yes! Do you know him?” 

“I do, indeed,” Yennefer said with a nod. “Very well.”

“And you never told me about him? How dare you,” he teased, “Keeping a handsome Witcher like that a secret from me. You know, Yen-” He paused, pondering something. 

“Yes?”

“I was friends with a Witcher, wasn’t I? Other than Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir.”

Yennefer hesitated, unsure where this was all going to lead. “Perhaps. You’ve befriended a lot of people, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I think I travelled with him on quite a few occasions, too. I just… can’t remember who it was.” Jaskier looked lost in thought as he tried to search his memory. Every time he came close to a name, a face, a voice, anything that would hint at the mystery Witcher’s identity, it blurred in a disorienting way that discouraged him from trying for too long. “Strange. I know I wrote some songs about him. Odd that I can’t seem to recall… Hm.” He had an idea. “Hand me my lute, would you? You did say you rescued it, yes?”

“Of course, darling,” she said with a smile, still uncertain of how this might pan out. She hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that she had essentially hidden nearly half his life’s worth of memories away from him.

Yennefer went to retrieve the case, and as she shifted it, something inside made a rattling, scraping sound. She frowned, anticipating Jaskier's disappointment upon seeing his precious lute damaged. Slowly and carefully, she opened the case and took it out. Yennefer was no expert in musical instruments of any sort, but it didn't appear to be broken at all. The pegs and strings were intact, the neck and body immaculate. So what had made that sound, she wondered.

She peered into the case, and something golden flickered inside as it caught the dim light of the room. She reached inside and felt the vibration of magic as her hand closed around a small ring. It looked nothing like the signet ring Jaskier wore before, though it wasn't like she had memorized his hands when they were tracing over every inch of her body. Not at all. 

Yennefer moved back to Jaskier's bedside, lute in one hand and ring in the other. "Is this yours?" she asked, holding out the piece of jewelry for him to see it. 

"No, never seen it before," he said, completely disinterested in the ring. "My lute, please." 

Yennefer pocketed the ring and handed the bard his instrument. He looked it over for flaws, finding none, and admired the fine Elven craftsmanship as if seeing it for the first time. Maneuvering it one-handedly to lay across his body in something resembling playing position, he plucked each string one by one. “Mostly in tune,” he noted out loud. 

Jaskier’s instinct to bring up his hand to finger the frets was thwarted by the lack of response from the splinted limb hanging uselessly in a sling. He sighed as deeply as the pain in his ribs would allow, attempting to fight the crushing heaviness in his chest, and wordlessly held up the lute by the neck for Yennefer to take back. 

Once she had the instrument secure in its case again, she sat down on the edge of the bed, settling slowly into the mattress to avoid jostling Jaskier. She angled to face the poet as best as she could, but he avoided her eye contact. “You’ll play again,” she said, attempting to comfort him by putting her hand over his. 

He pulled away from her touch. “I’d rather not talk about it.” Yennefer was used to being bothered by the balladeer talking far too much, but she found herself even more concerned by his silence. After a short while, he spoke again. “The Witcher I used to know… Do you think he’ll ever come back? You don’t think he… died, do you?”

“He might come back, it’s possible. And Witchers are stubborn. They don’t die so easily.”

“Then maybe… Maybe he didn’t come back because he didn’t want me around. Perhaps I did something to upset him? I just wish I could remember.”

“No, my dear.” Yennefer tried again to take the bard’s hand into hers, and this time, he let her. “That can’t be true. You’re a little annoying sometimes, yes, but you’re actually quite endearing. I’m sure he has a good reason for not coming back for you, and he’ll tell you when you see him again.”

Jaskier finally looked at Yennefer, and she was relieved to see there was a bit more life in his eyes. “So I’m just  _ a little _ annoying?” He asked with a grin. “And  _ endearing _ ? I suspect you like me more than you’d prefer to admit.”

“Don’t push it,” the sorceress teased back. “I’ve made it quite clear how I feel about you. Do you think I’d really go out of my way to rescue just any obnoxious bard?” 

“No, you’re right. Just the obnoxious bards that do that  _ particular thing _ you like.”

Eager to shut up Jaskier before he could say anything else that would make her blush, Yennefer leaned in to kiss him. It seemed to do the trick.

***

After morning training with Ciri and Coën, Geralt stopped by the keep’s library on his way to change places with Yennefer. Though the books were all considered old even when Geralt was a child, it made it easier for the Witcher to find something that he was fairly certain Jaskier had yet to read. 

He recalled the bard telling him once that geography had been his favorite subject in school and history his second-favorite, but there wasn’t much of either on the shelves. Instead, he selected a few rare tomes of monster lore. The troubadour’s songs contained so many inaccuracies when it came to legendary creatures that Geralt figured he could stand to learn a bit more, even if Jaskier insisted that the truth didn’t matter as much as the emotions evoked. 

Geralt entered his room to find Jaskier asleep and Yennefer also napping, having dozed off in the chair beside the bed. He gently shook her awake, and they had a brief, whispered exchange about how the morning had gone. Geralt made a mental note to not mention the lute, and to be ‘less growly,’ whatever that meant.

“Lambert and Eskel stopped by,” Yennefer informed him. “They wanted to visit with Jaskier, but he was already out of it again. Oh, and they wanted me to tell you that Vesemir wants to speak with you.”

Geralt grimaced, dreading the inevitable lecture that awaited him. 

“Triss already came by, too, but she’ll be back later. She said he’s doing a lot better, but he’s running a bit of a fever.”

“Infection?” Geralt asked, concerned.

“No, she checked. It’s a normal reaction, according to her. It means the magic is doing its job and his body is repairing itself.”

The Witcher huffed out a breath of relief. “That’s good news.”

“Indeed. Triss said to let it run its course, just make sure it doesn’t go too high.”

Geralt grunted his understanding. 

Once Yennefer gathered up enough of her energy to continue Ciri’s training for the day, she stood to leave. She combed her fingers through some wild strands of Geralt’s platinum hair that had gotten loose, pressed her lips softly and briefly against his, and walked away without a word. Looking over her shoulder, she noticed the Witcher’s faint smile as he watched her leave, and she smiled back in return.

Geralt set the books down on the bedside table and took Yennefer’s place in the chair. Working on sword fighting techniques with Coën had been a welcome distraction, allowing him to forget about his grief for a few hours. Even with Jaskier right in front of him, alive and starting to physically heal, the fact that their whole history together had been reset to zero felt like a heavy loss. 

Thankfully - or rather, unfortunately - he didn’t get a chance to brood over it long.

He tried occupying his mind with one of the books he took from the library, opening it up at random to an entry about cockatrices. The author’s style was typical for the time in which it was written, incredibly dry and making heavy use of antiquated, superfluous words. Geralt was sure Jaskier would have an easier time comprehending it than he did.

As much as he tried to engross himself in his reading, he found himself easily distracted, looking up at the slumbering poet every time he stirred, anticipating that he might awaken at any moment. 

Geralt got up to check on Jaskier’s fever, lightly pressing the back of his hand to the bard’s forehead. He felt warm, but not worryingly so. 

Jaskier flinched and murmured something that Geralt couldn’t make out.  _ Must be having a nightmare _ , he thought, and returned his attention to the book.

Jaskier mumbled and whined again, louder this time, and Geralt’s keen senses picked up the strong, sulfurous odor of adrenaline. And then it happened almost all at once: the bard’s heartbeat quickened, the fur covering him whooshed as it was flung back, and the Witcher’s peripheral vision caught the unthinkable sight of Jaskier trying to get up, and in a hurry.

“Jaskier, don’t!” Geralt shouted, leaping up from the chair as fast as his enhanced reflexes allowed.

***

_ And you will surely be the death of me _

_ But how could I have known? _

-Like the Dawn, The Oh Hellos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, lovely readers! I don't have much to say except I just have so much gratitude for everyone who takes the time to read my work. You're all so beautiful, and I hope you're staying hydrated and moisturized and living your best life.
> 
> See you next chapter (which may or may not be late because I'll be out of town. Forgive me.) ~


	7. To Be a Bit of Warmth

Chapter 7: To Be a Bit of Warmth

_ In the end all I hope for _

_ Is to be a bit of warmth for you _

_ When there’s not a lot of warmth left _

_ To go around _

-Boreas, The Oh Hellos

  
  


Jaskier thought he heard a half-whispered conversation going on somewhere next to him. But that was impossible, he reasoned, because he was alone, and had been for weeks. The cells adjacent to his were empty, no soldiers were around, and wherever that mage was, at least he wasn’t anywhere nearby, thank Melitele.

He tried to force himself to sleep, and became dismayed to discover that he couldn’t. When he reached a certain threshold of pain, his body would usually grant him the mercy of unconsciousness. But not now, it seemed. Instead, he laid awake on the floor of his cell, back against the wall, simultaneously chilled to the bone and dizzy with heat. 

Somewhere between wakefulness and slumber, he felt a hand against his forehead. Though it seemed oddly tender for a soldier, he recoiled from the touch, fearful that he’d be yanked up by his hair again.

“I can get up on my own, you don’t have to do that,” he murmured, brushing away the invisible hand. But he knew it was a lie, and so did his captors. They were aware the bard was a flight risk from the moment he tried to bolt from the tavern, and made it a point to prevent him from trying it again. Their preferred method was kicking him in the leg to ensure that what they had broken stayed that way and to remind him that he wasn’t going anywhere on his own volition.

_ ~There you are.~  _

A voice crashed through Jaskier’s thoughts like a thunderclap, and though he couldn’t see anyone standing in front of him, he knew who it belonged to: that gods-awful mage.

_ ~You have something that belongs to me, and I’m coming for it.~ _

“I’ll never tell you where the princess is, so you can stop asking!” the bard shouted at the air. He must be going mad, he reasoned, yelling into the void like that. Just when he figured his captors had nothing left of him to ruin, they had finally destroyed his sanity. If he couldn’t keep his wits about him, it would only be a matter of time before they took from him what they wanted and went after Cirilla. But he would fight as long as he was able.

Ulrich’s chuckle echoed in his mind.  _ ~It’s more than just the princess, but I’ll gladly take her too, and your sorceress friend. And I don’t need to ask, I just need to find you. Something tells me that shouldn’t be too difficult. I’d say you can run, but that would be cruel. I doubt you’d get far.” _

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. 

The door to the cell opened on its own, and he dragged himself away from the wall to investigate. There was no trace of the mage, not a single soldier standing in the hall. And the door to the outside was open, letting in blinding light. It could’ve been dawn or dusk, but to his sensitive eyes that hadn't seen daylight in weeks, it shone as bright as high noon. 

_ ~Go ahead. Run.~ _

The mage’s disembodied voice sounded intimately close, and Jaskier could feel warm breath on his neck. His heart pounded as he forced himself to his feet, astonished and elated to discover that he could stand, and-

“Jaskier, don’t!” He heard a voice shout from somewhere that in his semiconscious state seemed both very close and far away. 

He felt no pain, only the urge to run as fast and far away as he could. But sheer terror and willpower weren’t enough to keep him upright. He felt himself falling, then floating. Suddenly but gently, his body collapsed into something - someone - pleasantly steady but yielding, smelling of salt and leather, heroics and heartache. And it felt inexplicably like home. 

To the White Wolf, Jaskier reeked of fear and fever. His chemise was soaked through with sweat and the Witcher could feel him shivering. He held the bard close, one arm firmly around his waist to lift him slightly off the ground. Jaskier’s head rested against Geralt’s shoulder, and the Witcher’s other hand found its way into the poet's damp hair as he held him close. Gradually, Jaskier’s heartbeat slowed and his trembling subsided, and for a moment, everything was calm. But only for a moment. 

As soon as Geralt heard the startled gasp in his ear and felt the troubadour's body tense, he knew there was going to be trouble.  _ Fuck _ , he thought, and prepared himself for the struggle that was to follow.

_ "Let go of me!"  _ The bard cried out, putting his hand against the Witcher's chest and trying to push himself free. 

Geralt's hand swiftly abandoned its place in Jaskier's hair as he considered using Axii to calm the panicked poet. He was loath to use it, especially on Jaskier, even more so now that there was something wrong with his mind already. If Geralt caused him even more harm, he'd never be able to live with it. But if the balladeer was going to injure himself further, Geralt couldn't allow that to happen either. He offered a brief and silent prayer to gods he didn't believe in that it wouldn't come to that.

"It's me," he said, immediately realizing how pointless that was. 

_ It's me, the man you don't remember anymore, despite twenty years spent travelling the damn Continent together.  _

"It's Geralt. We met this morning, remember?" 

_ Remember me, Jaskier. Come back. _

But the bard wasn't listening. "I  _ said _ let me go! I'm not going to tell you anything!" He bucked against Geralt's grasp, trying desperately to pull himself free. The White Wolf's hold around the Jaskier’s waist tightened slightly. 

"You're going to hurt yourself more if you don't stop," Geralt growled in warning, but to no avail.

“ _ You’re _ the one hurting  _ me _ !” Jaskier’s fight-or-flight response shifted quickly from “flight” to “fight,” and the Witcher was almost stunned by the hand that shot out at his face. 

“Stop!” Geralt roared, grabbing Jaskier’s wrist. The bard stared at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, not so much shaking in fear as he was vibrating. “Stop,” he repeated, calmer that time. “It was just a nightmare. You got out of bed and you almost fell. I caught you. You're safe.” 

Jaskier appeared to be paying attention now. His eyes looked less glazed over, and his arm relaxed in Geralt’s grasp. The Witcher kept a light hold on it just in case.

“Are you alright? Do I need to get Triss?” No matter what, he'd have to tell her about this, but he was in no hurry to deal with her reaction.

“I…” The bard had to think about it. His whole body felt numb, and not in a pleasant way. “I don’t know.” He became acutely aware that he was shivering, and that his shirt was stuck to him with sweat. “I’m cold. But I’m hot?”

“You’re running a fever. Triss says it’s a good sign. Means you’re healing. We should get you back in bed, and I’ll get you something dry to change into.” 

Jaskier nodded in agreement, now passive and compliant. Geralt eased him back down onto the mattress, sitting him upright against the headboard. He covered the still-trembling bard with a blanket and went to fetch one of his shirts. 

The Witcher returned and sat down on the bed close enough to feel Jaskier's sickly heat. The poet did his best to free himself from the dampened chemise on his own, requiring Geralt’s assistance to pull it up over his head and carefully maneuver his injured arm through the sleeve.

Despite being shirtless, there was little of the bard’s skin exposed by the bandages wrapped around his body. What flesh Geralt could see was a patchwork of bruises, and between that and the spots of blood that seeped through the linen dressings, it painted a vivid picture of what Jaskier suffered at the hands of Nilfgaard. The Witcher seethed with righteous anger.

Once he helped get the new shirt on, a much easier task without having to fight wet fabric, Geralt put the bard’s arm back in the sling and reassembled the nest of pillows around and under him. “How’s that?” he asked as he finished tucking the fur blanket around Jaskier.

“Quite nice, actually.” The poet smiled serenely and closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Good. I’ll let you sleep then.” Geralt was about to stand up from the bed when Jaskier’s hand darted out from the covers to grab him.

“Wait.” He stared up at Geralt, pleading with his eyes.

“Hm?”

“I’d just prefer it if you stay here and sit with me a bit. I don’t know why, but I feel…" Jaskier stuck out the tip of his tongue ever so slightly, as he tended to do when he was searching for the right words. "...Safe, with you. I haven’t felt that in a while.”

“You feel  _ safe _ with a Witcher? Must be the fever,” Geralt half-joked. “Humans are usually terrified of me.”

“I’m not. What’s there to be scared of?” Jaskier thought it over. “Oh, I guess the scowling and grunting and shouting might be a bit off-putting, yeah.” Geralt couldn’t help but scowl a little upon hearing himself described that way. “Ah, see? You’re doing it right now, the scowling thing.”

Geralt was keen to change the subject. “Are you sure you don’t want me to let you go back to sleep?” 

“After a nightmare like that, no. I’d almost prefer to never sleep again. Thank you for rescuing me, by the way. I didn’t mean to react like that. How rude and ungrateful of me.”

“You panicked. It happens.”

“Not to Witchers,” Jaskier pointed out.

“You’re not a Witcher,” Geralt countered.

“True. But I would pay just about anything right now for that accelerated healing you have.”

“Not worth the cost.” That was easy for Geralt to say without his profession or life’s passion currently hanging in the balance.

“The Trials, yeah, that’s... rough.”

“You know a lot about Witchers.”

“Because I’ve known a lot of Witchers.” Jaskier grinned. “Like Eskel and Lambert, they’re lovely fellows. Vesemir, too.” He noticed Geralt’s medallion. “Wolf School, hm? Weird that we’ve never met till now.”

“Yeah...”

“Actually, truth be told, I used to travel with a Witcher. But you know what's funny? I can’t seem to remember his name. Or what he looked like. Or, well, anything about him, really.”

_ You fool. I’m right here. _

“But I think I’d know him if I saw him.”

_ You’re looking right at me.  _

“If our paths cross again, I’d like to tell him something.”

“Hm?” Geralt hid his intense curiosity.

“I’d tell him I miss him. And I wish we were still friends. I think… I think we were friends.”

_ I miss you, too.  _

“You seem like a good friend to have. I’m sure he misses you also.”

Jaskier laughed. “You only just met me, dear Witcher. But if you think so, then maybe I should accompany you on your travels instead. That is, if I can prove myself a worthy travel companion.”   
  
Geralt smiled ever so subtly, downplaying his intense joy. “I think I could give you a chance.”

“Might be awhile before I can join you, though…” The bard shifted with discomfort under the covers. Geralt no longer detected the foul odor of adrenaline and predicted that Jaskier’s blissful ignorance of his pain would soon come to an end. “So, don’t stay here waiting for me or anything.” 

_ I’ll stay as long as you need me to. _

“I’m not leaving until spring. You’ve got plenty of time.”

But Geralt had it set in his heart that he wasn’t leaving Kaer Morhen without Jaskier, no matter how long that took. And the first summer that he'd be well enough to travel, be it the next one or ten summers from now, Geralt wanted to take him up on his offer to run away to the coast for a while. He could entrust Ciri in the care of Nenneke at the Temple of Melitele so it could just be the two of them. Or he could invite Yennefer to come along, and maybe she and Jaskier would invite him to-

The bard hummed in acknowledgement, though it sounded to Geralt more like a whimper. He took Jaskier’s sudden silence as a sign that the adrenaline rush had entirely worn off and he was coming down from the high. 

“Should I get Triss?”

Jaskier weakly shook his head. 

Geralt put his hand on the bard’s forehead. A bit warmer than before, but still not dangerously so. Without thinking, his touch drifted and he combed back Jaskier’s hair with his fingers, eliciting a soft moan from the poet. He froze.

“Why’d you stop?” Jaskier slurred sleepily, struggling to keep his eyes open as he peered up at Geralt.

“I… I didn’t want…”  _ I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to scare you away.  _ “Is it okay if I… touch you like that?”

“Certainly, if it pleases you. It feels delightful.” 

“Hm.” The Witcher resumed running his hand through Jaskier’s hair. “You should get some rest.” 

“Only if you promise to stay here.”

Geralt took a moment to consider his words carefully. “I’ll stay... as long as you need me to.”

The bard smiled contently and his eyes fluttered closed. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

***

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Geralt spent it reading, keeping his promise to Jaskier and staying by his side as he slept. His peace was interrupted when he heard the unmistakable footsteps of Eskel and Lambert approaching, followed by their unannounced entrance.

“Don’t you look comfortable.”

Geralt looked up from the yellowed text at Lambert, closing it and setting it down on the bedside table.

“Are you just going to hide in here for the rest of winter?” the youngest Witcher teased.

“Take it easy on him,” Eskel chided as if this was something he’d already warned Lambert against, because it was.

“Yeah yeah, his precious bard got his ass handed to him by Nilfgaard and doesn’t remember him anymore. That’s very sad.” Lambert turned his attention back to Geralt. “But we both know he’s just avoiding Vesemir.”

“I’m going to talk to him,” Geralt defended himself, perhaps a bit stronger than he needed to. 

“Yeah? When?” Lambert smirked. ”Doesn’t look like you’re all that busy right now.”

“When Yennefer comes back with Ciri, I’ll go. Right now, I’m... “ The White Wolf glanced at Jaskier, then back at Lambert. “I’m making sure he doesn’t get up.”

Eskel chuckled. “Not to sound mean, but I doubt you need to worry about him doing that.”

“He already did.” Geralt’s brothers looked at him incredulously. “He had a nightmare, or a panic attack of some kind. I stopped him, he didn’t make it far. I just… didn’t want it to happen again.”

“You have to tell Triss,” Eskel said with concern in his voice.

“Have to tell me what?” 

The three Witchers looked at Triss, then each other, waiting to see who was brave enough to tell her. Lambert shot a glance at Geralt, then at Eskel. Through subtle gestures and expressions they all learned how to interpret over the years, they conveyed to each other that it was going to have to be Lambert. He’d be the least likely to take her frustration to heart.

“Fuck me,” Lambert groaned. “Geralt said Jaskier had a nightmare and freaked out or something, and he got out of bed.”

“He  _ what? _ ” The Witchers all thought they saw the corner of Triss’ eye twitch before she glared at Geralt. “Why didn’t you come get me?” 

“It was fine. I caught him before he fell.” 

“I can’t believe you-!” Triss stopped to calm herself. “If he made his injuries worse, I’m holding you personally responsible. Get up. I need to look at him.” 

Geralt stood and stepped aside to make room for Triss. 

“You don’t have to stick around,” She said to him in a gentler tone. “Go take a break.” 

“I promised him I’d stay.”

Eskel and Lambert shot each other a look, and Triss did her best to hide her smile from Geralt, lest he think that she wasn’t still furious with him. “He’s asleep, I don’t think he’ll notice.”

Geralt couldn’t find the words to say that he didn’t want to leave Jaskier’s side, not now nor ever again. Or at least, he couldn’t bring himself to say them. For years, he didn’t even realize he had the capacity to think such a thing, let alone express it. He believed what society at large said about Witchers: They lack emotions. They can’t love. So he ignored the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have and denied the love he felt so deeply. 

It was only the night before when Eskel brought it to Geralt’s attention that he did love Jaskier, that he was in fact  _ in _ love with him, and had been for so many years. And only hours had passed since he first put those feelings into words, just to learn he was too late for it to matter. He felt raw and vulnerable, dangerous things for Witchers to be, and knew he had to be careful. 

“I’m going to take a while,” said Triss, procuring potions and salves and bandages from her bag and arranging them on the table. “So you might as well find something to do. Like go speak with Vesemir before he asks for you again.”

“Okay. I’ll go,” Geralt sighed. He had delayed the inevitable long enough. 

Eskel gave the White Wolf a brotherly clap on the back. “We’ll go with you and offer moral support.”

To which Lambert snarked, “The hell we will.”

***

“Lambert, Eskel, you two are free to go. Dinner is not going to prepare itself.” Vesemir smiled at the pair warmly, then turned his attention to the Geralt with a fatherly expression that was understood to mean  _ I am not mad at you, just deeply disappointed _ . “I wish to speak with him alone.” 

“Told you,” Lambert muttered to Eskel, hurrying out of the room.

Vesemir waited for them to leave before addressing Geralt. “Tell me, my boy, what it is that you think you’re doing?”

The younger Witcher blinked, unsure what his teacher and father-figure was getting at.

“I can’t tell you how to live your life,” Vesemir continued, shaking his head. “but it would be wrong of me to not tell you when you’re making an utter mess of it.” 

“I assume this is about Yennefer and Jaskier. I didn’t invite them here-”

“That’s not the problem at all. They are always welcome guests. The issue is this: You know that relationships of any sort are difficult for Witchers. But I won’t tell you not to pursue them. If you want to go cavorting about with a sorceress, so be it. If you’re in love with a mortal man-” 

Geralt opened his mouth, but Vesemir cut him off before he could speak.

“-You have my blessing, for whatever it may be worth. As ill-advised as these affairs of the heart may be, if you’re going to have relationships with people, at least treat them well. Surely, I taught you better than to turn your back on the people you care about the moment things look slightly inconvenient.”

The White Wolf responded with a reluctant nod.

“We Witchers are strong enough to survive on our own, without needing anyone or being needed by anyone. But what’s the fun in that?” The old Witcher smiled and put his arm around Geralt’s shoulder. “Those two are important to you. Do what you can to mend what you have broken, and learn how to treasure them. Between that and looking after Ciri, you have a busy winter ahead of you.” 

Geralt blinked, not at all expecting Vesemir’s lecture to go like that. 

“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you slack off on your other duties around here. Now go help your brothers in the kitchen before they accidentally set it ablaze,” said the elder Witcher, dismissing Geralt from his quarters.

***

Some time after Triss was left alone with Jaskier, she observed first-hand what Lambert and Geralt had explained about the bard’s nightmare problem. Thankfully, he didn’t try to get up again, but he did seem quite shaken. Once fully awake, he even asked Triss where he was, which she chalked up to how disorienting his nightmare must have been. But beyond that, he seemed otherwise normal, or as normal as she could expect one to be in his condition.

Triss was just about done changing Jaskier’s bandages when Yennefer arrived with Ciri in tow.

“Where’s Geralt?” The violet-eyed sorceress inquired, immediately noticing his absence. 

“Nice to see you, too,” Triss said with a smirk. “He went to talk to Vesemir a while ago. Since he hasn’t come back yet, he’s either still getting an earful, or he got put to work.”

“Is Jaskier awake? I brought Ciri. She wanted to say hello to him, if that’s alright.”

“It’s alright with me,” the bard spoke up cheerily. “Come over here!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri shouted excitedly and ran to his bedside. His grin and the light in his eyes matched her enthusiasm as he opened his good arm wide to welcome her to give him a hug. 

“Careful,” Triss cautioned. The poet seemed sunny and carefree now, but not long before Yennefer showed up with Ciri, he was complaining about the dull, throbbing ache in his limbs after Triss adjusted his splints. Knowing the pain-killer she gave him couldn’t possibly be working that well that quickly, she was aware that he was putting on a bit of an act. 

“I’m so happy to see you again,” said the princess with her face snuggled in the crook of his neck. They released their embrace, and Jaskier beamed at Ciri. 

“My, what a lovely young lady you’re growing up to be. It’s been too long, Princess… um.”

“No need to be formal. You can just call me Ciri now,” the girl said with a smile, not noticing Jaskier’s little slip-up.

But Triss did. Her eyes met Yennefer’s with a worrying glance. 

_ ~What?~  _ Yennefer was preemptively on the defense. 

_ ~That’s the second time that’s happened since that little spell of yours. Earlier, I had to remind him where he was.~  _

_ ~I hope you're not implying Ithat I might have something to do with it. You _ did _ say memory lapses could happen.~ _

_ ~Yes, it can happen, but- I was covering for  _ you _.~  _ Yennefer could hear in her thoughts how tightly Triss was gritting her teeth.

_ ~So this might be normal.~ _

Jaskier bowed his head slightly in lieu of his usual dramatic flourish. “As you wish. Ciri-” He cut himself off with a sharp, agonized gasp and shuddered as his eyes rolled back. 

_ ~Ah, there’s the princess!~ _ Ulrich’s voice ripped through the poet’s mind, undetected by the sorceresses. 

The bard’s eyes snapped tightly shut and he pressed the heel of his good hand into his temple as he keened. Without hesitation, Triss dropped to her knees by his bedside.

“Jaskier? What’s going on?”

Ciri backed away until she bumped into Yennefer. She looked up at her new teacher, brows knit with worry. “Did I do something wrong?” 

“No, he’s just not feeling well.” Yennefer attempted to comfort Ciri, but she looked no less concerned. “I’m sure dinner will be soon, why don’t you go help the boys set the table?” 

Ciri lingered for a moment, watching Triss as she attempted to get Jaskier to respond before she scampered out the door. 

“What happened?” Yennefer asked.

“I don’t know,” Triss replied, frustrated by her inability to get an answer from the conscious but unresponsive bard. She could tell he was muttering something, but not in response to her.

“Is this normal?” 

The redhead ignored her friend’s questions, giving her attention solely to Jaskier as she ran through the possible causes of what was troubling him. A certain memory spell done by a certain sorceress kept coming to mind. 

The poet’s tormented expression relaxed and his eyes opened, struggling to focus. He blinked as he looked in Triss’ direction, but through her. 

“Jaskier,” she said once more, and his eyes settled on her. “Talk to me.” He squeaked out another whine. It wasn’t words, but at least it was a response of some kind. “Do you know where you are?”

“Don’t make me say it,” he answered quietly. She gave him a stern look, and he mumbled, “Kaer Morhen.” 

Odd, but at least he knew. “And the princess, what’s her name?”

Again, he answered softly, “Cirilla.”

The sorceresses simultaneously exhaled with relief and Yennefer joined her friend sitting by Jaskier’s bedside. His gaze shifted from Triss’ face to Yennefer’s, and almost immediately, his eyes closed tightly once more.

_ ~Black hair. Black dress. This must be the sorceress.~  _ Ulrich spoke again as the image of Yennefer filled Jaskier’s thoughts.  _ ~And did you say Kaer Morhen? How lucky for you that you’re hiding somewhere so hard to reach. Hard, but not impossible.~  _ The mage’s laughter rang painfully in his head.  _ ~See you soon.~ _

Jaskier’s eyes opened again. “I can’t stay here, I appreciate your hospitality, but I have to  _ go _ ,” he rapid-fire mumbled in a panic, sitting up and pushing back the covers. Triss watched in disbelief as she understood too well what she was told about him getting up out of bed. 

Unlike Geralt, Yennefer had no qualms about putting the poet in an altered state. She reached over and brushed her thumb across his brow, then gently eased his head back down to the pillow as he went limp.

“Yen, to answer your question, is this normal?” Triss was equal parts angry and worried. “No. This fucking isn’t.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lovely readers. I did say my update would be delayed because I would be out of town. Oh how I wish that had been the case. Let me preface this by saying I am fine :3 I had a bit of a scary health experience that landed me in the hospital for a few days. So, if anything seems "off" about this chapter, I'd blame it on me writing half of it while somewhat, uh, addled, though my beta-reader reassures me that it's wonderful just the same. 
> 
> Anyway! For the love of all things holy, hydrate, take care of yourselves, tell the people you love that you love them, and see you next update. You're all beautiful, my darling readers. <3


	8. Burned By Liars’ Gold

Chapter 8: Burned By Liars’ Gold

_ But I've never been a wealthy one before _

_ I've got holes in my pockets  _

_ Burned by liars' gold _

_ And I think I'm far too poor for you to want me _

\- In Memoriam, The Oh Hellos

  
  


“Fix this,” Triss hissed through gritted teeth. “Fix this, or I’m telling Geralt.”

Yennefer let out a haughty laugh. “What makes you think it has anything to do with what I did?”

“He wasn’t like this until you cast that spell on him.” 

“Nilfgaard had him for weeks, and I only got him out of there two days ago. It's a miracle that he's not  _ worse _ . You and I both know what trauma can do to people. Don’t pretend as if you’ve never woken up in a cold sweat reliving what happened at Sodden Hill. Because I have.” Yennefer’s amethyst eyes welled up with tears. She wiped them away before they could fall.

Triss shuddered at a phantom pain and put her hand to her chest, over a scar that still wouldn’t quite heal. “Then you should know that  _ this _ ,” she gestured at the unconscious bard, “is something different.” She let out a sigh of frustration. “You're my friend, Yen, but… there are some things I just can’t understand.” 

“Such as?” Yennefer asked as she raised a brow.

“Why you have to be so manipulative, for one.” Triss answered, refusing to be intimidated by the threatening look her friend was giving her. “What purpose did taking away Jaskier’s memories of Geralt serve? So you can have him to yourself?”

“So he can focus on healing, and not fall apart every time Geralt speaks to him.” Yennefer smirked. "And he asked for it. It’s not like I gave him something he didn’t want. I certainly didn’t do it for my benefit. I’m not that interested in him.”

Triss had witnessed Yennefer genuinely distraught when it was uncertain if Jaskier would pull through and had watched the way she cared for him so tenderly, so it was apparent to her that “not that interested” was still a fair amount of interest. 

“Sure, he asked for it, but you didn’t have to do it.” Triss echoed Yennefer’s flippant tone. “And it does benefit you. It hurts Geralt, doesn’t it? You got your revenge. He took away your choice, you took away his closest friend. So I guess you have both of them to yourself now.”

Yennefer chuckled, brushing off the fact that Triss was accurate in her assessment. No matter how much she told Triss and herself that casting the memory spell was purely for Jaskier’s sake, there was a part of her that took pleasure in seeing Geralt unravel over the loss of his decades-long relationship with the troubadour. 

“You’re jealous,” the raven-haired sorceress said with a smile, her tone bitingly sweet. “And a hypocrite.”

Triss blinked, taken aback by the accusation. “Pardon?” 

“You want to talk about how it's so reprehensible to manipulate people for one’s benefit? Like you didn’t use your magic to seduce Geralt once?”

“Oh, you mean after you left him?  _ Again? _ Exactly how many times have you slept with him and then disappeared the next morning?” 

Yennefer glowered in silence, and Triss could already hear the venomous things her dear but sometimes cruel friend might soon spout. “Look, Yen.” Warmth and gentleness returned to her voice. “I meant it when I said you’re my friend. I believe your intentions are mostly good, if not a little selfish. If you care about Geralt and Jaskier - and I  _ know _ that you do - fix this.”

Yennefer’s cold expression softened. “I can’t,” she said with a shrug. “If I tell Geralt what I did, or how to lift the spell, it can never be undone. Jaskier’s memories of him will be permanently hidden away, and he’ll lose the ability to make memories of him at all.” 

Triss’ jaw dropped. “I would say I can’t believe it, but frankly, I’m no longer surprised! So until Geralt breaks the spell himself, we just have to deal with whatever damage it’s caused? Assuming that it's reversible, of course."

Yennefer groaned. “The spell doesn’t work that way. The only thing he should have forgotten was Geralt. It has to be something else.”

“Then you can figure it out!” Triss was now way past her limit, too exhausted mentally and physically to keep her cool anymore. “And while you’re at it, stop using magic to mess with his head and wake him up, before you make whatever is wrong even worse.” 

Having said her piece, Triss stormed out of the room, leaving Yennefer alone with Jaskier, as well as her thoughts.

_ It can't be my fault,  _ she told herself.  _ I’ve made nothing worse. _ She wasn't sure she believed it.

***

For almost a week, Yennefer saw no reason to think what had caused Jaskier’s worrying behavior, nor a reason to feel guilty about possibly causing it. After she woke him up, things went on like normal, or as normal as they could be, and nothing else alarming occurred. 

  
  
  


Ulrich, the mage who had tortured the bard, was biding his time. He knew that both the princess and the sorceress that Nilfgaard was after were both safely tucked away in Kaer Morhen, unreachable for the rest of winter. And if his assumption was correct, so was the ring that he placed in Jaskier’s lute case for safekeeping. 

The Nilfgaardian commander was still breathing down his neck, asking him how his search for the sorceress was going and taunting him with vivid descriptions of how the dimeritium shackles would rot him from the outside in if he didn’t find her. Ulrich lied and said he was still looking. For all he cared, the sorceress and the princess could remain free as long as he got his treasure back, and he was more than willing to offer Jaskier a generous bargain: return the ring, or deal with Nilfgaard. Until he worked out how he would get the ring back, Ulrich would keep stalling his report to the commander.

  
  
  


Over those precious, peaceful days, the tension between Yennefer and Triss eased, and the violet-eyed enchantress felt emboldened enough to ask her friend for a favor.

“This was in Jaskier’s lute case,” she said, holding out the ring in her hand. Triss picked it up and felt the buzz of power coming from it. “I know it holds magic of some kind, but I can’t identify what it is. I thought maybe you’d know.”

Triss held it up to examine it. "Looks like it has something engraved on it, but I can't read what it says. I'll have to do some research." She set it down on her work table and looked up at Yennefer. "Aren't you supposed to be training Ciri?"

"The girl hates me," Yennefer said, lackadaisical.

"Perhaps if you weren’t so harsh with her, she might be more receptive."

"They're even stricter at Aretuza. It's better that she gets used to it now."

"Maybe take a lesson from Geralt," Triss suggested with a smile. "You see how he is with her?"

Indeed, Yennefer had seen the way Geralt was with Ciri, and noticed how it carried over into his other interactions. He seemed more patient, less gruff, and slower to anger, even when Lambert teased him about going soft, reminding him of the old axiom, ‘a soft Witcher is a dead Witcher.’

While he hadn’t quite mastered his new role as a father yet, his slow but steady progress showed he had potential. It made Yennefer wonder if she truly had it in her to be the loving, nurturing type or if Geralt had been right when he said she wasn’t fit to be a mother.

“She’s not in the right mood for a lesson anyway,” Yennefer said, pushing the thought from her mind. “Geralt said she had a terrible nightmare last night and she’s still inconsolable.”

“Another?” Triss noticed the girl’s nightmares had been increasing in frequency over time, each one leaving her more and more distressed, and were occasionally prophetic in nature. “Did he say what it was about?” 

“She dreamed that she was attacked by a monster while Geralt stood back and did nothing.”

Triss wrinkled her nose. “That does sound rather unpleasant. And extremely unlikely. He’d never let that happen.” 

“Of course not. But we know that’s not stopping him from feeling guilty and brooding over it.” 

***

Geralt had indeed spent the entirety of the early morning brooding, racked with guilt to think that he might ever let danger befall Ciri, even accidentally. During training, he was always careful with her - too careful, if the other Witchers had anything to say about it, which they did. 

Lambert gave him an earful about how he was spoiling the girl by letting her go back to bed and skip her lesson with Yennefer. 

“What was I supposed to do, drag her out of bed literally kicking and screaming?” Geralt asked.

“Why not? That’s what Vesemir did,” Lambert replied. 

When they were children, their instructors did awful things to them, Vesemir being no exception to the rule. But now that they were all older and Witchers were a dying breed, Geralt and his brothers held no resentment toward their beloved teacher. There was an unspoken understanding that he did all the wrong things for all the right reasons. But that didn’t mean Geralt had to raise Ciri the same way he had been brought up. 

He left the princess to her own devices, pretending to not take it personally when she screamed at him or recoiled from his touch or banished him from her room. The problem was that he just wasn’t very good at pretending. 

Yennefer found him sitting in the common room, doing a poor job of acting like nothing was bothering him. “You skipped breakfast _ and _ lunch. You must really be in a foul mood.” Geralt grunted, confirming her hypothesis. “Maybe Ciri doesn’t want your company, but I know someone who does.” 

She moved to stand behind his chair, placing her hands on his shoulders and massaging them with a firm but gentle pressure. She leaned over the back of his chair, putting her mouth close to his ear to whisper, “I do.” 

Geralt let out a low, gravelly hum. 

“It’s not just me though,” Yennefer said, straightening herself and continuing to work the knots out of Geralt’s broad shoulders. “You should go talk to Jaskier.” She felt his muscles tense at the mention of the poet’s name. “It’s been a bit of a rough morning for him.”

“What happened? Did he have another nightmare?”

“No. It was only that once,” Yennefer lied. She never told him about what happened while he was gone, never mentioned that Jaskier briefly forgot where he was and the princess’ name, or that he would’ve tried to get up again if she had let him. “We talked about…  _ us _ .”

“Us?”

The sorceress sighed. “My feelings for you, my feelings for him. The topic just sort of… came up.”

Geralt shrugged off Yennefer’s hands from his shoulders and turned himself to look up at her and growl, “And what did you tell him?” 

She walked over to the chair across from his in front of the fireplace, and his eyes followed her intently. Once she was seated, she answered. “The truth: That you and I are bound to each other by destiny, and that what I have with him is, well, not the same. I do like him, more than I thought I would ever, but… It’s not what he needs right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“That he needs  _ you _ , Geralt.”  _ And I will never confess how sorry I am for taking him away from you.  _ “After we talked, he seemed okay. It wasn’t like he was heartbroken or anything. But then Triss came and wanted to speak with him privately. When I came back, he told me to leave.”

“And you think he’ll talk to me.”

“I know he will. He asked about you.” Yennefer noticed Geralt perk up a little. “His memory still hasn’t returned,” she said, watching him deflate again, “But he asked where you’ve been all morning because usually you’d have gone to see him by now. I didn’t tell him you were moping, so pull yourself together and go talk to him.”

“I thought you wanted my company.”

“That can wait. And I still haven’t decided if I forgive you.”

***

When Geralt walked into his room, his senses were hit with the heavy brine of tears and despair and sound of Jaskier sniffling. He wasn't sure if he could handle two people he cared about crying on the same day. The weeping ceased as soon as the bard realized he was no longer alone. 

"It's me. I brought you some soup," Geralt announced and walked over to the bed. He was happily surprised to find Jaskier sitting up and leaning against the headboard. He looked more lively compared to the day before, even if he was distraught and avoiding eye contact.

"Thank you," Jaskier said glumly, not even acknowledging Geralt's presence with a glance. "Just set it down on the table next to the books where I can reach it."

The Witcher did as he was asked, then sat down in the chair by the bed.

"You can go," the bard said quietly. Geralt read between the lines, and “you can” sounded like a thinly veiled “ _ please don’t _ .” 

"Jaskier."

"I said you can go. I can be left unattended. I’m not as fragile as you think," he replied with a dramatic, dismissive gesture.

Geralt stood, and he heard the bard softly exhale. He knew Jaskier well enough to know it was a sigh of disappointment and not relief. He moved to sit down on the bed, close enough that he could lean in and kiss him. Not that those were his intentions, but he noticed that he could, if he wanted to. 

"Jaskier," he repeated, placing his hand ever so gently on the poet's good arm.

"What is it, dear Witcher?" Unable to avoid Geralt any longer with him being so close, Jaskier finally turned his head to face him. He forced a polite smile and blinked away the tears from his bloodshot lapis lazuli eyes.

"Uh..." Geralt struggled for words. "You've been crying."

Jaskier's slight smile cracked into something genuine as he was taken off guard by the Witcher's blunt statement of the obvious. "Indeed."

"What’s wrong?"

“It’s fine.” Jaskier cast his gaze downward and pulled away from Geralt's touch to fidget with his sling. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Yen told me after you talked to Triss-”

The bard snapped his attention back to Geralt at the mention of the sorceress' name, his eyes once more filled with tears. “Triss told me to prepare for the possibility that I might not get full use of my hand back. There's a chance I'll never-" he choked on the words “-never be able to play the lute again.” 

“That’s the worst case scenario,” Geralt said, attempting to be comforting, though it only served to make Jaskier more upset. “She’s not done healing you yet. Give it a few more weeks before she knows what she can and can’t fix. Triss doesn’t give up that easily, so neither should you.”

“Maybe. But what if, when she's done all she can, if I still can't…" Jaskier began to sob again. "What will become of me? I'm a performer. Where will I go if I can no longer perform?” 

_ With me. Wherever I go, go with me. _

Geralt ditched that thought in favor of a more practical idea. “You can still write. And there are still plenty of stories worth telling.”

“So I just go back to Oxenfurt, teach, and wait to hear those stories second-hand?" Jaskier sounded almost offended, making Geralt regret making what seemed like a reasonable suggestion, though he figured there was probably nothing he could say to the crestfallen bard at this point that would provide any relief.

"My most popular ballads - and I can’t even remember them now - were all first-hand accounts of my travels with Witchers. Or a particular Witcher, anyway. Assuming my old friend ever returns, I doubt I’ll be physically or mentally strong enough for him to invite me along again. If my old material is lost, and I can’t write anything new, I'll just have to accept my career is over. Maybe I'll be a gardener and grow roses or something.” 

Geralt swallowed a lump in his throat. If everything he said was going to be wrong, he might as well say what he meant. Holding back had already caused him to lose Jaskier once, so what more harm could being honest do?

“You already said you'd join me, but consider this a formal invitation. When I leave in spring,”  _ or summer, or fall, or whenever you are well enough, _ “come with me. I'll give you plenty to write about."

The bard blinked at him, bewildered. At least he stopped crying for the time being. “Oh. I thought- I thought we were both joking. I was half-delirious when I said that.”

“I’m serious. Come with me.”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, I couldn’t impose on you like that. I would only be a burden." Geralt bit back a growl, furious at himself for all the times he led the poet to believe that was ever the case. "If I can’t play music, I can’t earn my keep or be much of a barker, so there’s nothing in it for you.”

“That’s not what I want.”

The bard's brows raised as he made a realization. “Aha." Whatever epiphany he had, he looked embarrassed about it, and Geralt had no idea why. Yet. "If you don't want me to accompany you for my artistic services, then I can guess what you  _ do _ want from me, and I’m going to have to ask you to reconsider.” 

Geralt was puzzled as he stared at the bard and watched him hike up his shirt, looking away from Geralt shamefully as he did so. All of the blood-stained bandages were gone, leaving his skin bare and none of Nilfgaard's handiwork to the imagination. 

Thanks to Triss’ magic and potions, the bruises had faded and the lacerations had closed over. But the deeper wounds, of which there had been many, left behind a tapestry of scars. For a Witcher, it would be almost nothing, barely remarkable. But Geralt understood how it could be an upsetting discovery for a human, especially one accustomed to bedding nobles who desired only what fell within their narrow definition of finery and perfection. 

Jaskier pulled his shirt back down, keeping his face downcast as he glanced timidly up at Geralt through his eyelashes. “The rest of me doesn’t look much better. So you’ll have to think of something else I could offer you in exchange, unless you’re okay with me remaining clothed while we… you know.”

Geralt would've blanched if his complexion wasn't already supernaturally pale. “There’s nothing wrong with how you look. But do you think that’s what I’m after? That I’m asking you to travel with me in return for  _ sex _ ?” The bard’s assumption equally angered and saddened him. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what reaction he expected from Geralt, other than perhaps disgust, but it wasn’t the reaction he got. He found the courage to look up at him, and the Witcher almost wished he hadn’t, at least not grinning the way he was. He felt like he was getting cornered at a tavern in Posada all over again. 

“Well, you certainly do touch me an awful lot for someone that barely knows me.”

The Witcher moved like he was about to make more distance between them, but the bard put his hand on his knee. He froze right where he was, delightfully trapped. 

Even though Jaskier’s eyes were red from crying for hours, they glinted with mischief. “Now, I didn’t say I don’t like it. I’m just saying I’m not entirely a fool, and I'd rather you be honest about your intentions before I accept your invitation.”

"Hm." Geralt tried to think, which was easier said than done with the bard touching him like that. He thought back to what Eskel said about his observations of Jaskier’s behavior, how handsy he was, how obvious his affection had been to everyone but Geralt himself. It was hard for him to not hate himself a little for how oblivious he had been, for all of the lingering touches and gentle caresses he failed to notice over the years. But he was keenly aware of it now. As far as Jaskier was concerned, they were almost strangers, so Geralt tried to tell himself that maybe it meant nothing. Or maybe Eskel was right when he said the bard had a type.

"That’s not why I want you to come with me,” the Witcher finally said, and he was being honest. Certainly, he wouldn’t turn down sex if it were to be willfully, enthusiastically offered. But more than anything, he wanted his friend back. “You… remind me of someone. Someone I cared about. That I... loved.”

“Like Yennefer? She told me all about you two, by the way.” Jaskier’s eyes suddenly widened with fear. “Wait, Yen said you knew about what she and I- I hope you're not upset, it was just once-"

“No. I’m not upset."  _ Nor will I be if it happens again. _

The poet heaved a sigh of relief, and the mischievous gleam returned to his eyes. "Does Yen know that you… look at me the way you do?"

"She does. But that's not-" It was Geralt’s turn to be flustered, but Jaskier showed pity on him and returned the conversation to the previous topic.

"So this person you loved so dearly. What happened to her?"

"I abandoned  _ him _ ," Geralt corrected. "Maybe the worst decision I ever made." And he knew had made many. "I tried to apologise and make it right. But it was too late. He was gone."

Jaskier clicked his tongue. "What a shame. Maybe if you'd tried sooner..."

"Hm."  _ Maybe. _

"So, you’re asking me to be your travel companion because I remind you of a lost love? That’s quite poetic, actually.” The bard smirked teasingly. “I didn’t know Witchers had the capacity for-”

“Love?” Geralt growled.

“No. Poetry.” 

“There’s nothing poetic about it. I just…”

_ Want to keep you safe. I just want you to be happy. I just want to be with you. _

“...Want to return the favor, for what you’ve done to help the business and reputation of Witchers. Whether you’re a musician or an author, I’ll make sure you never run out of material.”

Jaskier’s eyes flooded with tears again, this time tears of joy. "That’s very kind of you, and I accept. But I must ask you to promise me something, Geralt.”

“Hm?”

_ Anything for you. _

”Do not fall in love with me." 

_ But not that. It’s far too late for that. _

The request left Geralt momentarily stunned. "Why?"

"Because I become infatuated quite easily, but it's always been unrequited,” the poet explained with a melancholy smile. “At this point, if someone were to fall in love with me, I simply do not know what I would do."

_ It wasn’t unrequited. I loved you, and I love you still.  _

“Besides,” Jaskier continued. “You loved someone and you left them. Why should I believe you wouldn’t do it to me, too?”

Geralt felt a sharp twinge of guilt. “Because it was the biggest mistake I ever made, I regret it every day, and it’ll never happen again.” 

“Then promise me that instead.”

Geralt nodded.

_ Anything for you. _

It came to Geralt’s attention once more that he was close enough to lean in and kiss Jaskier if he wanted to. And he wanted to, so he did, softly and briefly, and wondered why it took him more than twenty years to do it. 

“Anything for you.”

The bard gaped at him breathlessly, then asked, “Anything?”

“Anything,” Geralt repeated.

The balladeer looked at him thoughtfully. “Could you use Igni to heat up the soup you brought me? I bet it’s gone cold by now.” 

With a scowl and grunt of mild disappointment, the Witcher obliged and went to reach for the bowl he left on the bedside table. Before he could grab it, the bard pulled him close again and his citrine eyes grew large, transfixed on the beauty just inches from his face.

“I’m sorry. You said ‘anything’ and I went mad with power. It won’t happen again,” Jaskier apologized with a boyish smile before returning Geralt’s kiss, just as soft though not as brief.

“You promise?”

“Absolutely not.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely readers, I am still alive and doing very well. <3 
> 
> I apologize for this chapter being light on plot and mostly fluff, but there are plot points in there if you tilt your head and squint XD I just felt like granting Geralt and Jaskier one (1) happiness before I'm back on my angsty bullshit. There's a tiny book reference in here too, because frankly, I love the books a bit more than the show, at least as far as Geralt and Jaskier's relationship goes (and I might have ulterior motives to fix Netflix's "interpretation" and gradually move things closer to how they are in the books). I will go on a whole rant about it if provoked :3 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I appreciate you beautiful humans, and as always, drink plenty of water, take your meds, stay warm and safe if you're in the US dealing with the snowpocalypse, and be good to yourself. <3


	9. Like a Ram at the Altar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter gets a little intense. If psychic torture and physical injury are hard for you to read, you might want to skip the last half of this. 
> 
> If you think you can handle it, buckle up, buttercup, it's "torture the bard" o'clock.
> 
> I promise it's not all awful? <3

Chapter 9: Like a Ram at the Altar

_ Love’ll get you slaughtered _

_ Like a ram at the altar _

_ What is safe ain’t the same as what is good _

_ So lay compress to the aching _

_ Of your body made for breaking _

_ We’ve got a lot of breaking left to do _

-Rose, The Oh Hellos

Geralt had just two thoughts as he processed what had just transpired. The first, inspired by the bluest eyes he’d ever seen gazing back at him, as deep and expansive as oceans:  _ We could head for the coast.  _ And the second:  _ It can’t get any better than this. _

And yet, it somehow did.

“I was only partially joking about the soup, by the way,” Jaskier said, breaking the silence as well as the spell he seemingly had over Geralt. It wasn’t the only bit of magic starting to come undone. 

After a slight shake of his head to pull himself back to reality, Geralt reached for the bowl of soup, half expecting to be interrupted by the bard and his antics once again. Holding the bowl in one hand, he made the sign for Igni with the other. “This isn’t just some parlor trick, you know,” he said as he heated the soup until steam rose up from it. 

“Right, sure. Like you never use it to play with candles or anything,” Jaskier teased.

“I don’t,” Geralt replied honestly, making a mental note to try it sometime. 

He waited a moment for the bowl to cool and was about to hand it over to Jaskier when he detected a subtle shift in the light behind his eyes. The bard was staring into the ether, his vision unfocused. Geralt didn’t sense any fear coming off of him, which gave him some relief, but he still had an uneasy feeling that something terrible was about to happen. Out of caution, he set the bowl on the table slowly, avoiding any abrupt movement. 

Jaskier’s eyelids fluttered and his gaze fixed on the Witcher again. “Geralt?” he asked suddenly with alarm in his voice. Geralt sat perfectly still as Jaskier hesitantly reached toward him, his hand trembling ever so slightly before cupping the White Wolf's face.

“I think I’m starting to remember something.” Jaskier smiled and ran his thumb over Geralt’s cheek. “My old Witcher friend was you, wasn’t it?”

Completely stunned, Geralt stared back at him in disbelief. Despite Triss’ optimism that Jaskier’s memory loss could be temporary, he protected himself from heartache by writing off the possibility that it would ever return at all. After how careless and cruel he had been for so long, being remembered felt too good to be true, and like more than he deserved. 

“Tell me it was you,” Jaskier said softly, almost pleadingly, unsure how to interpret Geralt’s silence. “And that you’ve come back for me.”

“It’s me,” Geralt finally said and carefully enveloped Jaskier in his arms. “I’m here, and I’m never going to leave you again.” The poet returned the embrace, squeezing as tightly as he could manage, and laid his head on Geralt's shoulder.

“So, you loved me?” Geralt heard Jaskier mumble into the crook of his neck.

“Mhm,” the White Wolf grunted. “Still do.” 

If it had been a fairy tale, it would have ended there: True love’s kiss breaks the spell, the hero is reunited with his beloved, and they all lived happily ever after. But much in the same way that Witchers never get to die in their beds, they don’t get fairy tale endings, either. 

As he held Jaskier close, Geralt was busy making all sorts of plans. He had his bard back, his best friend, the other love of his life. They had the chance to start over with warmth and honesty, and Geralt wasn’t going to ruin it this time. It took him twenty years and for Jaskier to almost die at the hands of Nilfgaard for him to figure it out, but he knew what he wanted now.

He couldn’t wait to tell Yennefer that he had made good on his promise, that he fixed what he had destroyed, that everything was going to be fine. Maybe she could finally forgive him. And maybe they could all find a way to be happy, together. 

Deep down, he should have known that it was never going to be that easy.

Geralt heard Jaskier make a muffled whine and he quickly released him from their embrace, afraid that he’d held the still-fragile poet a bit too tightly. “You okay?”

“Headache,” Jaskier murmured, his eyes tightly shut. “It hurts to remember.”

“Don’t force it.” As much as Geralt wanted Jaskier to recover his memories, he certainly didn’t want it to be painful or add to the trauma the bard had already endured. He could tell from his breathing and the rapid beating of his heart that Jaskier was having a rough time with it. Glancing over at the table where Triss usually set her potions, he hoped to see something that might help ease the poet’s discomfort and was dismayed to see there was nothing of the sort.

“Just relax,” Geralt said gently, and as if on cue, Jaskier’s body went limp. The Witcher caught him before he could fall back and hit his head on the headboard and carefully helped reposition him so he was laying down, his head resting on the pillow. "I’m going to get Triss. I'll be right back," he said, resisting the urge to steal one more kiss before getting up to leave.

***

Yennefer’s spell was indeed coming undone, but true love’s kiss had nothing to do with it. She’d never cast a spell so clichéd. 

_ “You constantly tempt destiny by saying and doing things that you don’t mean,” _ she had said to Geralt, “ _ and then you run away from it when you get exactly what you asked for. As long as you keep doing that, you’re going to continue reaping the consequences.” _

The basis of her spell was the same as her warning: Say and do what you mean, and you’ll also get what you ask for. As Geralt’s words and actions finally reflected what he truly wanted, and he finally proved to Jaskier that he was a source of comfort instead of pain and someone worth remembering, the return of the bard’s memories of him should have been his reward. For once, Geralt finally did everything right. And for once, it wasn’t his fault that everything was about to go terribly wrong.

That was going to be Ulrich’s doing.

The magical chains that Yennefer locked around Jaskier’s memories loosened, setting them free in a dizzying swirl of color and noise. The blurry details of Jaskier's long-lost travel companion were starting to come into focus, and he wasn’t surprised when they resembled the white-haired Witcher that had been taking care of him.

Quick to fall in love, or rather, to become infatuated with someone, Jaskier fell for Geralt as hard the second time as he had the first. Maybe he truly did have a type, or maybe it was always destiny. But even as a stranger, Geralt felt like home to him, a source of safety and comfort when he needed it most. Yennefer had the power to suppress his memories, but she couldn’t take away what was marrow-deep: Jaskier was always going to love Geralt. And Yennefer knew that, too. She would’ve argued that it was part of her plan, that everyone would get what they wanted - eventually. She just didn’t take Ulrich into account.

What was meant to be a smooth and painless release of the bard’s memories of his Witcher became another way for the mage to torture Jaskier, and another bargaining chip in his quest to get his ring back.

~ _ Oh, so this is what you were hiding from me? _ ~ Ulrich’s voice in his head interrupted the process of remembering, leaving him disoriented by the fragmented recollections. ~ _ More than the princess, this is what was so damn precious: Him. _ ~

_ More precious than anything. _

Jaskier couldn’t control the thought, too weak to fight back against the mage anymore. Nor could he find the strength to ask Geralt to stay when he became vaguely aware that he was about to be left alone. 

_ "I’m going to get Triss,” _ he heard the Witcher say from the other side of consciousness. And then his tether to safety was gone.

The warmth and comfort of his bed - of Geralt’s bed - and the cocoon of pillows and furs was replaced with the cold, hard floor of his cell at the Nilfgaardian outpost. Though a dream, it felt convincingly real as Ulrich stood there before him.

“I’m going to make you a deal,” the mage said. “I’ll be honest with you-”

“I highly doubt you’re capable of that, but do go on,” Jaskier interrupted with the boldness and snark that landed him on Ulrich’s shit list immediately upon their first encounter. 

The mage didn’t care much for this strong and irreverent version of the bard. Instead, he preferred how Jaskier was a few weeks into his imprisonment, too worn down and miserable to be obnoxious. He cleared his throat and continued. “Personally, I’m not interested in the princess at all. I don’t care about the sorceress either. But Nilfgaard does. What I  _ do _ care about is something of mine that now happens to be in your possession.” He held up the ring for Jaskier to see. “Return it, and I won’t tell Nilfgaard where you and your friends are hiding.”

“Why should I help you, after everything that you’ve done to me?” he said with a gesture that indicated his numerous injuries. In this nightmare he found himself in, he was as bloody and broken as he had been right before Yennefer rescued him, though not nearly in as much pain.

“Because if you don’t, Nilfgaard will stop at nothing to find Cirilla, and your sorceress friend is as good as dead. Besides, if you decide not to cooperate,” Ulrich said with a cruel smile, “there’s still so much left of you for me to ruin.” With a snap of his fingers, Jaskier became overwhelmed by an agony that made him once again yearn for death. “The mind is a powerful thing. I can make you do, or say… or feel… whatever I want.” 

“Do what you wish to me,” Jaskier hissed through clenched teeth, trying to fight through the pain, “But leave my friends alone.”

Ulrich chuckled. “You say that as if you have any choice in the matter. I’m going to do whatever I wish regardless. But I told you my terms: Your friends’ lives, in exchange for my ring. I’ll even sweeten the deal.” At those last words, images of Geralt flooded the poet’s mind. “All of these memories of the most precious thing in the world to you, this white-haired idiot.”

_ Geralt.  _ Jaskier could no longer keep the Witcher’s name out of his thoughts.

“Geralt,” Ulrich repeated. “You want them back, don’t you? Agree to return my ring to me, and I’ll return them to you.”

_ I don’t need to remember him to know that I love him. _

“Oh, you love him? That’s adorable.” The mage grinned mockingly. “You can’t hide your thoughts from me anymore, songbird. You’re too weak. I finally broke you. Took me long enough, but Nilfgaard would've been proud.” 

“You can have them. And Nilfgaard can take me again for all I care, because I am  _ never _ going to help you.” 

Ulrich took a couple of steps closer to Jaskier, kneeling down in front of him. “Nilfgaard doesn’t care anymore about a songbird with a broken wing.” The mage took hold of the balladeer’s shattered wrist and squeezed. “They care about getting their hands on Princess Cirilla, and getting revenge on the sorceress that roasted a couple dozen soldiers alive when she came to rescue you.”

Jaskier screamed as his vision whited out from the pain. “They’re safe in Kaer Morhen. Nilfgaard can’t touch them for the rest of winter,” he stammered between shallow, ragged breaths, and forced a cocky grin. “By spring, they’ll be long gone.”

“That may be so.” Ulrich changed his grip, feeling the pieces of bone shift beneath his fingers. He chortled at the cries it drew out from the bard. “But a lot can happen during winter, both to you and to them.”

“What, are you going to pay us a visit yourself? Are you really daft enough to try to get into a fortress, on a mountain top, in the middle of winter, occupied by a bunch of bored Witchers?”

“I don’t need to, not when I have easy access to one little songbird. Remember what I said: the mind is a powerful thing. I can make you do  _ anything _ .” Ulrich raised his brows for emphasis, his eyes lit up with villainous glee. “Let me prove it to you. My ring’s in your lute case. Go get it.”

“I can’t walk. I couldn’t get it for you even if I wanted to - which I don’t.”

“Ah, but you can. Whether or not it’ll hurt you further is another story, and none of my concern. Now  _ go _ .”

***

“Oh no,” Triss murmured softly under her breath when she walked in to discover Jaskier passed out on the cold stone floor. After a week or so without any kind of trouble, she had assumed the worst was over and that the bard’s long road to recovery would at least be relatively smooth. She was dismayed to see she was wrong, though not entirely surprised. Clearly, she would have to have another talk with Yennefer.

Geralt’s reaction was nowhere near as subdued. 

“Jaskier!” he shouted, and moved superhumanly fast to be by his side. After a cursory check for any serious new injuries, he gently scooped him up off the floor to place him back in bed. It wasn’t the first time he ever had to carry him, and he couldn’t recall the poet ever being so light. 

_ It’s not there, _ Jaskier thought, half-unconscious and half-awake.  _ The ring’s not in my lute case. _

Then he remembered Yennefer showing it to him and asking about it when he was distracted by his lute and trying to remember any of his ballads about his beloved Witcher - the very same one calling his name.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called again softly, lightly shaking the poet’s shoulder. "Come on. Wake up."

_ ~Guess you’re gonna have to get it from that witch.~ _

_ Hey. Only  _ I  _ can call her that. _

“Geralt?” Finally emerging from his nightmare, Jaskier became aware of the large but tender hand on his shoulder, the soft warmth of the mattress and furs - and a sharp, stabbing ache from bearing weight on his injured leg far too soon. 

Geralt could smell the discomfort before the bard was fully cognizant of it, and was at the ready with a vial of potion. “Drink,” he ordered, pressing it to Jaskier’s lips.

“Gods, that tastes terrible,” the balladeer complained after swallowing the bitter concoction, though he was grateful for it. 

"Careful what you say," Triss said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I brewed that."

"You did? Well then, it's actually the best potion I've ever tasted," Jaskier joked, smiling faintly.

"I know it's awful." Triss smiled back, but only briefly. "Now tell us what happened."

“I-”

_ ~Tell her and I’ll make you do something you’ll regret for the rest of your miserable days,~  _ Ulrich warned.  _ ~You know I can, and you know I will.~ _

Under the furs, out of sight for both Triss and Geralt, Jaskier's hand twitched, being moved by a will that was not his own.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”   
  
“What’s the last thing you  _ do _ remember?” Triss asked.

"Let's see… This morning, I was chatting with Yennefer, then  _ you _ came in," the bard narrowed his eyes at Triss, "to inform me that I might need to consider a new career-"

Triss groaned and cut him off. "I told you, it's the worst case scenario, and you know I am trying my best, but you need to-"

"Enough of that," Geralt interrupted. "Then what happened?"

Jaskier thought for a moment, then his lapis lazuli eyes met Geralt's. "You came, and we-"

_ Kissed _ , they both thought at the same time.

"-Talked. And then…"

An incomplete memory flashed in the bard's mind: A tavern in Posada. Citrine eyes and a shock of white hair. If he tried to focus on the details for too long, they warped in a way that left him feeling nauseated. 

Having the mage poking around in his head wasn't helping.  _ ~You want this?~ _ Ulrich taunted.

_ Give it back.  _

_ ~Find the ring, and I'll let you remember everything.~ _

_ Just let me keep what I've already got.  _ A beat of silence.  _ Please. _

_ ~Fine, I can do that. But I’ll only ask you one more time: Do we have a deal?~ _

Jaskier looked into Geralt's eyes, the exact same amber eyes in his fragmented memories. 

_ Deal. _

"And then…" Jaskier's eyes gleamed, and he grinned in that way Geralt both hated and loved. "I remembered something: When I was eighteen, I met you at a tavern. I saw you sitting in the corner and brooding, and I knew immediately that I was going to fall in love with you." He reached out from under the furs to take Geralt's hand into his. 

Triss' eyes widened. Maybe she'd been wrong about Yennefer. Maybe her spell had served a good purpose after all. Not only were Geralt and Jaskier not at each other's throats, they looked genuinely happy being together. 

But even if it wasn't Geralt impeding progress, there was still something else getting in the way of Jaskier's recuperation.

"So how did you end up on the floor?" The sorceress asked bluntly.

"I told you, I don't remember. I had a horrible headache. I think that's when Geralt left to get you. And after that.. " Jaskier shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The bard only had a hazy recollection of what had transpired while he was trapped in his nightmare with Ulrich. He remembered the terms of his deal with the mage, and when he thought about it now, returning a small piece of jewelry in exchange for his friends' lives and well-being seemed like a small bargain. But he didn't remember getting out of bed, making it over to where his lute was kept or searching for the ring. He only knew that he didn't find it.

And that whatever he had done to himself in between getting up and collapsing to the hard stone floor wasn't good. 

"After two close calls, I hoped he wouldn't actually do it," Triss said to Geralt. "But like they say, third time's a charm."

" _ Two _ ?" Geralt growled. "I only know of one."

"Yennefer didn't tell you?" Triss shook her head and mumbled, "Of course she didn't." 

"No," the White Wolf snarled. "She didn't."

"Well, I'll leave that between you two to work out," the sorceress said with feigned sweetness, briefly wondering if she should talk to Yennefer before Geralt could get a hold of her. Either way, she wanted to be there when he inevitably tore into her for withholding information like that from him. If only he knew the half of it, she mused. "For now," she said, turning her attention to Jaskier, “let me take a look at you.”

Geralt kept Jaskier entertained with small talk while Triss flitted about, poking and prodding at the bard. 

“If you’re feeling better, I could bring you down to have dinner with everyone tonight,” Geralt suggested.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know. I can’t entertain. And I look awful.”

“You always look ridiculous,” Geralt kidded, “But everyone would like to see you.”

“Hmm,” Triss suddenly vocalized. “Maybe another night would be better. Geralt, come here.”

The Witcher kissed the poet’s knuckles before letting go of his hand and getting up to join Triss at the foot of the bed. She lifted the fur blanket and pointed out to Geralt where the splint on his leg had come loose and it was apparent that the ends of bone were no longer properly aligned. “I’m going to need your help resetting that,” she said as quietly as she could.

“Huh? What are you whispering about?” the bard asked, growing increasingly concerned over the serious looks on Triss and Geralt’s faces.

Triss and Geralt both made their apologies before offering him something to bite down on. Triss tried to reassure him that since he already consumed a potion, it would barely hurt at all. 

When all was said and done, and he was burying his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck while the Witcher combed his fingers through his hair, Jaskier realized Triss had lied.

_ ~See?~  _ Ulrich crooned. _ ~I’m not done ruining you yet, little songbird.~ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mage is a bastard, and I'm so very sorry D: I promise things do get better. Please don't give up on me XD
> 
> In speaking of giving up... I am still alive! My delay in updating has not a darn thing to do with any health-related issues and is completely due to my day job being A Lot. I'm still writing and not giving up on this, I'm just struggling with keeping up a regular cadence right now. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm always happy to get comments and kudos. Even though I know you probably want to yell at me for this chapter and frankly I deserve it :3
> 
> Would you like to yell at me in real-time? Or just chat with me because I'm actually a nice person, I promise? I'm constantly on Discord these days. Come hang out with me and my friends at the very chill 18+ server, [ Nest of Witchers](https://discord.gg/gSZuBQXhUq) , or at [ There's a Bard Loose at Kaer Morhen!](https://discord.gg/8EgF2kS3Tb)
> 
> Stay hydrated, stay moisturized, and stay groovy, and I will see you next time! <3


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